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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 


PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


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Carnacs  Folly 


YET   HE   WOULD    LIKE   TO   SEE   THE   MAN   IN   A   DIFFERENT    HUMOUR, 
AND   WITH   JOY    HE    HEARD  JUNIA   SPEAK 

Paue  265 


CARNAC'S  ROLL  Y 


By 
GILBERT  PARKER 

Author   of  "TAe   Seals    of  the  Mighty,"    ''The  Right  of  fVay,'"   "Wild 
Youth,"    "No    Defence,"    etc. 

with   Illuitraticns  by 

IV ALTER  LAUDERBACK 


PHILADELPHIA  AND    LONDON 
J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   CO  MP  ANT 


COPYRIGHT  .    1922,   BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANTf 

COPYRIGHT,  igaa.  by  j.  b.  lippincott  companv 


PRmTED   BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

AT  THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS, 

PHILADELPHIA,  V.  S.  A. 


fFORKS   BT    GILBERT   PARKER 

NOVELS  AND  SHORT  STORIES 
Pierre  and  His  People                         The  Right  of  Way 

College 

Mrs.  Falchion 
The    Trespasser 

Donovan  Pasha 
A  Ladder  of  Swords 

The  Translation  of  a  Savage 

The  Weavers 

The  Trail  of  the  Sword 

Northern  Lights 

When  V almond  Came  to  Pontiac     Cumner^s  Son 

An  Adventurer  of  the  North 

The  Judgement  House 

The  Seats  of  the  Mighty 

Tou  Never  Know  Your  Luck 

The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes 

The  Money  (Question 

The  Battle  of  the  Strang 

The  World  for  SaU 

The  Lane  that  had  no  lurning 

Wild  Youth 

No 

Defence 

POEMS 
A  Lovers  Diary 

Embers 
(In  the  Subscripdon  Edition  of  the  Author'*  boolu  only) 

TRAVEL  AND  HISTORY 

Round  the  Camp  fire  in  Australia 
Old  ^ehec 

(In  collaboration  with  Lt.  Col.  Claude  G.  Bryce) 

NATIONAL  AND  POLITICAL 
The  Land,  the  People,  and  the  State 

(In  collaborations  with  Richard  Dawson) 

The  World  in  the  Crucihle 


2043250 


Contents 


CHAP.  PAGE 

BOOK   I. 


I  In  thu  Days  op  Childhood 13 

II  Eleven  Years  Pass 23 

III  Cabnac's  Retukn 43 

IV  The   House  on  the  Hill 51 

V  Carnao  as  M  anaqeb 59 

VI  LuiE  Tabbob  has  an  Opper 76 

VII  "At  CUB  Price?" 86 

VIII  John  Qribr  Makes  Another  Offer 99 

IX  The  Puzzle 110 

X  Denzil  Tells  his  Story 119 

XI  Cabnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother 127 

XII  Carnac  says  Good-bye 139 

BOOK  n 

XIII  Cabnac's  Return 163 

XIV  The  House  op  the  Three  Trees 161 

XV  Cabnac  and  Junia 173 

XVI  John  Gbieb  Makes  a  Joubney 181 

XVII  The  Reading  op  the  Will 189 

7 


g  Contents 

CBJLP  PAOB 

BOOK  ni 

XVin    A  Great  Decision 199 

XIX    Cahnac  Becomes  a  Candidate 207 

XX    Junta  and  Tabboe  hbab  the  News 224 

XXI    The  Secret  Meetxnq 239 

XXn    Point  to  Point 249 

XXIII  The  Man  who  Would  Not 259 

XXIV  The  Blub  Paper 268 

XXV    Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game 284 

XXVI    The  Challenqb 295 

XXVn    Exit 305 

XXVIII    A  Woman  writes  a  Letter 314 

XXEX    Carnac  and  his  Mother 320 

XXX    Tabboe  has  a  Dream 327 

XXXI    This  Wat  Home 337 

XXXII    "Halves,    Pardner,  Halves" 345 


Illustrations 

FAGS 

Yet  he  Would  Like  to  See  the  Man  in  a  Different  Humour,  and 
With  Joy  he  Heard  Junia  Speak Frontispiece 

"You're  my  Husband,  and  I'll  Love  you  Better  Than  any  Women 
on  Earth  can  Love  you" 40 

Tarboe  was  Reckless  as  to  How  he  got  What  he  Wanted,  but  the 
Soul  of  Greater  Things  was  in  Him 102 

"There's  Only  one  Thing  and  One  Person  to  Talk  About  Ma'm'selle"  291 


1^ 


Book  I 


Chapter  I  In  the  Days  of  Childhood 

CARNAC!  Carnac!  Come  and  catch,  me, 
Carnac ! ' ' 

It  was  a  day  of  perfect  summer  and  hope  and 
happiness  in  the  sweet,  wild  world  behind  the 
near  woods  and  the  far  circle  of  sky  and  pine  and 
hemlock.  The  voice  that  called  was  young  and 
vibrant,  and  had  in  it  the  simple,  true  soul  of  things. 
It  had  the  clearness  of  a  bugle-call — ample  and  full 
of  life  and  all  life's  possibilities.  It  laughed;  it 
challenged ;  it  decoyed. 

Carnac  heard  the  summons  and  did  his  best  to 
catch  the  girl  in  the  woods  by  the  tumbling 
stream,  where  he  had  for  many  an  hour  emptied 
out  his  wayward  heart;  where  he  had  seen  his 
father's  logs  and  timbers  caught  in  jams,  hunched 
up  on  rocky  ledges,  held  by  the  prong  of  a  rock, 
where  man's  purpose  could,  apparently,  avail  so 
little.  Then  he  had  watched  the  black-bearded 
river-drivers  with  their  pike-poles  and  their  levers 
loose  the  key-logs  of  the  bunch,  and  the  tumbling 
citizens  of  the  woods  and  streams  toss  away  down 
the  current  to  the  wider  waters  below.    He  was 

13 


14  Carnac's  Folly 

only  a  lad  of  fourteen,  and  the  girl  was  only  eight, 
but  she — Junia — ^was  as  spry  and  graceful  a  being 
as  ever  woke  the  echoes  of  a  forest. 

He  was  only  fourteen,  but  already  he  had  visions 
and  dreamed  dreams.  His  father — John  Grier — 
was  the  great  lumber-king  of  Canada-,  and  Junia  was 
the  child  of  a  law^^er  who  had  done  little  with  his 
life,  but  had  had  great  joy  of  his  two  daughters, 
who  were  dear  to  him  beyond  telling. 

Carnac  was  one  of  Nature's  freaks  or  accidents. 
He  was  physically  strong  and  daring,  but,  as  a 
boy,  mentally  he  lacked  concentration  and  decision, 
though  very  clever.  He  was  led  from  thing  to  thing 
like  a  ray  of  errant  light,  and  he  did  not  put  a 
hand  on  himself,  as  old  Denzdl,  the  partly  deformed 
servant  of  Junia's  home,  said  of  him  on  occasion; 
and  Denzil  was  a  man  of  parts. 

Denzil  was  not  far  from  the  two  when  Junia 
made  her  appeal  and  challenge.  He  loved  the  girl 
exceedingly,  and  he  loved  Carnac  little  less,  though 
in  a  different  way.  Denzil  was  French  of  the  French, 
with  habit  of  mind  and  character  wholly  his  own. 

Denzil 's  head  was  squat  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
his  long,  handsome  body  was  also  squat,  because 
his  legs  were  as  short,  proportionately,  as  his  mind 


In  the  Days  of  Childhood  15 

was  long.  His  face  was  covered  by  a  well-cared-f or 
beard  of  dark  brown,  streaked  with  grey ;  his  features 
were  rugged  and  fine;  and  his  eyes  were  like  two 
coals  burning  under  a  gnarled  headland;  for  his 
forehead,  ample  and  full,  had  lines  which  were  not 
lines  of  age,  but  of  concentration.  In  his  motions 
he  was  quiet  and  free,  yet  always  there  was  a  kind  of 
stealthiness  in  his  movements,  which  made  him  seem 
less  frank  than  he  really  was. 

For  a  time,  with  salient  sympathy  in  his  eyes, 
he  watched  the  two  children  playing.  The  whisk- 
ing of  their  forms  among  the  trees  and  over  the 
rocks  was  fine,  gracious,  and  full  of  life — life  without 
alarm.  At  length  he  saw  the  girl  falter  slightly, 
then  make  a  swift  deceptive  movement  to  avoid  the 
boy  who  pursued  her.  The  movement  did  not  delude 
the  boy.  He  had  quickness  of  anticipation.  An 
instant  later  the  girl  was  in  his  arms. 

As  Denzil  gazed,  it  seemed  she  was  in  his  arms 
too  long,  and  a  sudden  anxiety  took  hold  of  him. 
That  anxiety  was  deepened  when  he  saw  the  boy 
kiss  the  girl  on  the  cheek.  This  act  seemed  to 
discompose  the  girl,  but  not  enough  to  make  drama 
out  of  an  innocent,  yet  sensuous  thing.  The  boy 
had  meant  nothing  more  than  he  had  shown,  and 


1 6  Carnac's  Folly 

Denzil  traced  the  act  to  a  native  sense  of  luxury 
in  his  nature.  Knowing  the  boy 's  father  and  mother 
as  he  did,  it  seemed  strange  that  Caniac  should  have 
such  demonstration  in  his  character.  Of  all  the 
women  he  knew,  Carnac's  mother  was  the  most  exact 
and  careful,  though  now  and  again  he  thought  of 
her  as  being  shrouded,  or  apart;  while  the  boy's 
father,  the  great  lumber-ldng,  cantankerous,  passion- 
ate, perspicuous,  seemed  to  have  but  one  passion,  and 
that  was  his  business. 

It  was  strange  to  Denzil  that  the  lumber-king, 
short,  thin,  careless  in  his  clothes  but  singularly 
clean  in  his  person,  should  have  a  son  so  little  like 
himself,  and  also  so  little  like  his  mother.  He, 
Denzil,  was  a  Catholic,  and  he  could  not  understand 
a  man  like  John  Grier,  who,  being  a  member  of  the 
Episcopal  Church,  so  seldom  went  to  service  and 
so  defied  rules  of  conduct  suitable  to  his  place  in 
the  world. 

As  for  the  girl,  to  him  she  was  the  seventh  wonder 
of  the  earth.  Wantonly  alive,  dexterously  alert  to 
all  that  came  her  way,  sportive,  indifferent,  joyous, 
she  had  all  the  boy's  sprightliness,  but  none  of  his 
weaknesses.  She  was  a  bom  tease ;  she  loved  bright 
and  beautiful  things ;  she  was  a  keen  judge  of  human 


In  the  Days  of  Childhood vj 

nature,  and  she  had  buoyant  spirits,  which,  however, 
were    counterbalanced    by    moments    of    extreme 

timidity,  or,  rather,  reserve  and  shyness.  On  a  day 
like  this,  when  everything  in  life  was  singing,  she 
must  sing  too.  Not  a  mile  away  was  a  hut  by  the  river 
where  her  father  had  brought  his  family  for  the 
summer's  fishing;  not  a  half-mile  away  was  a  tent 
which  Carnac  Grier's  father  had  set  up  as  he  passed 
northward  on  his  tour  of  inspection.  This  particu- 
lar river,  and  this  particular  part  of  the  river,  were 
trying  to  the  riverman  and  his  clans.  It  needed 
a  dam,  and  the  great  lumber-king  was  planning  to 
make  one  not  three  hundred  yards  from  where 
they  were. 

The  boy  and  the  girl  resting  idly  upon  a  great 
warm  rock  had  their  own  business  to  consider. 
The  boy  kept  looking  at  his  boots  with  the  brass- 
tipped  toes.  He  hated  them.  The  girl  was  quick 
to  understand. 

"Why  don't  you  like  your  boots?"  she  asked. 

A  whimsical,  exasperated  look  came  into  his  face. 
**I  don't  know  why  they  brass  a  boy's  toes  like  that, 
but  when  I  marry  I  won't  wear  them — that's  all," 
he  replied. 

2 


/ 


i^ Carnac's  Folly 

**Why  do  you  wear  them  now?*'  she  asked, 
smiling. 

"You  don't  know  my  father." 

*  *  He's  got  plenty  of  money,  hasn't  he  ? "  she  urged. 

** Plenty;  and  that's  what  I  can't  understand 
about  him!  There's  a  lot  of  waste  in  river-driving, 
timber-making,  out  in  the  shanties  and  on  the  river, 
but  he  don't  seem  to  mind  that.  He's  got  fads, 
though,  about  how  we  are  to  live,  and  this  is  one 
of  them. ' '  He  looked  at  the  brass-tipped  boots  care- 
fully. A  sudden  resolve  came  into  his  face.  He 
turned  to  the  girl  and  flushed  as  he  spoke.  "Look 
here,"  he  added,  "this  is  the  last  day  I'm  going  to 
wear  these  boots.  He's  got  to  buy  me  a  pair  with- 
out any  brass  clips  on  them,  or  I'll  kick." 

"No,  it  isn't  the  last  day  you're  going  to  wear 
them,  Camac." 

"It  is.  I  wonder  if  all  boys  feel  towards  their 
father  as  I  do  to  mine.  He  don't  treat  me  right. 
He " 

"Oh,  look,"  interrupted  Junia.  "Look — Car- 
nacl"    She  pointed  in  dismay. 

Camac  saw  a  portion  of  the  bank  of  the  river 
disappear  with  Denzil.  He  ran  over  to  the  bank 
and  looked  down.    In  another  moment  he  had  made 


In  the  Days  of  Childhood 19 

his  way  to  a  descending  path  which  led  him  swiftly 
to  the  river's  edge.  The  girl  remained  at  the  top. 
The  boy  had  said  to  her:  **You  stay  there.  I'll 
tell  you  what  to  do." 

**Is — is  he  killed?"  she  called  with  emotion. 

''Killed!  No.  He's  all  right,"  he  called  back 
to  her.  *'I  can  see  him  move.  Don't  be  fright- 
ened. He's  not  in  the  water.  It  was  only  about 
a  thirty-foot  fall.  You  stay  there,  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  to  do,"  he  added. 

A  few  moments  later,  the  boy  called  up :  ''He's 
all  right,  but  his  leg  is  broken.  You  go  to  my 
father's  camp — ^it's  near.  People  are  sure  to  be  there, 
and  maybe  father  too.    You  bring  them  along." 

In  an  instant  the  girl  was  gone.  The  boy,  left 
behind,  busied  himself  in  relieving  the  deformed 
broken-legged  habitant.  He  brought  some  water 
in  his  straw  hat  to  refresh  him.  He  removed  the 
rocks  and  dirt,  and  dragged  the  little  man  out. 

"It  was  a  close  call — ^bien  sur,"  said  Denzil, 
breathing  hard.  "I  always  said  that  place  wasn't 
safe,  but  I  went  on  it  myself.  That's  the  way  in 
life.  We  do  what  we  forbid  ourselves  to  do;  we 
suffer  the  shames  we  damn  in  others — ^but  yes." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  ke  added:     "That's 


20 Carnac's  Folly 

what  you'll  do  in  your  life,  M'sieu'  Camac.  That's 
what  you'll  do." 

"Always?" 

''Well,  you  never  can  tell — ^but  no." 

"But  you  always  can  tell,"  remarked  the  boy. 
"The  thing  is,  do  what  you  feel  you've  got  to  do, 
and  never  mind  what  happens." 

"I  wish  I  could  walk,"  remarked  the  little  man, 
"but  this  leg  of  mine  is  broke — ah,  bah,  it  is  I" 

"Yes,  you  mustn't  try  to  walk.  Be  still," 
answered  the  boy.  "They'll  be  here  soon." 
Slowly  and  carefully  he  took  off  the  boot  and  sock 
from  the  broken  leg,  and,  with  his  penknife,  opened 
the  seam  of  the  corduroy  trouser.  "I  beheve  I 
could  set  that  leg  myself."    he  added. 

"I  think  you  could — bagosh,"  answered  Denzil 
heavily.    ' '  They  '11  bring  a  rope  to  haul  me  up  ?  " 

"Junia  has  a  lot  of  sense,  she  won't  forget 
anything." 

"And  if  your  father's  there,  he'll  not  forget 
anything,"  remarked  Denzil. 

"He'll  forget  to  make  me  wear  these  boots 
to-morrow,"  said  the  boy  stubbornly,  his  chin  in 
his  hands,  his  eyes  fixed  gloomily  on  the  brass- 
headed  toes. 


In  the  Days  of  Childhood  21 

There  was  a  long  ailence.  At  last  from  the 
stricken  Denzil  came  the  words:  "You'll  have 
your  own  way  about  the  boots." 

Carnac  murmured,  and  presently  said : 

"Lucky  you  fell  where  you  did.  Otherwise, 
you'd  have  been  in  the  water,  and  then  I  couldn't 
have  been  of  any  use." 

"I  hear  them  coming — holy,  yes!" 

Carnac  strained  his  ears.  "Yes,  you're  right. 
I  hear  them  too." 

A  few  moments  later,  Carnac 's  father  came 
sliding  down  the  bank,  a  rope  in  his  hands,  some 
workmen  remaining  above. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  he  asked.  "A 
fall,  eh!  Dang  little  fool — now,  you  are  a  dang 
little  fool,  and  you  know  it,  Denzil." 

He  nodded  to  his  boy,  then  he  raised  the 
wounded  man's  head  and  shoulders,  and  slipped 
the  noose  over  until  it  caught  under  his  arms. 

The  old  lumber-king's  movements  were  swift, 
sure  and  exact.  A  moment  later  he  lifted  Denzil 
in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  over  to  the  steep  path 
up  which  he  was  presently  dragged. 

At  the  top,  Denzil  turned  to  Carnac 's  father. 


22 Carnac's  Folly 

"M'sieu',  Carnac  hates  wearing  those  brass-toed 
boots,'*  he  said  boldly. 

The  lumber-king  looked  at  his  boy  acutely,  and 
not  very  fondly.  He  blew  his  nose  hard,  with  a 
bandana  handkerchief.  Then  he  nodded  towards 
the  boy. 

**He  can  suit  himself  about  that,"  he  said. 

With  accomplished  deftness,  with  some  sacking 
and  two  poles,  a  hasty  but  comfortable  ambulance 
was  made  under  the  skilful  direction  of  the  river- 
master.  He  had  the  gift  of  outdoor  life.  He  did 
not  speak  as»he  worked,  but  kept  humming  to  himself. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  Denzil  on 
the  stretcher.    * 'We'll  get  on  home  now." 

"Home?"    asked  his  son. 

"Yes,  Montreal — to-night,"  replied  his  father. 
"The  leg  has  to  be  set." 

"Why  don't  you  set  it?"    asked  the  boy. 

The  river-master  gazed  at  him  attentively. 
"Well,  I  might,  with  your  help,"  he  said.  "Come 
along." 


Chapter  II  Eleven  Years  Pass 

ELEVEN  years  had  passed  since  Denzil's  fall, 
and  in  that  time  much  history  had  been  made. 
Carnac  Grier,  true  to  his  nature,  had  travelled  from 
incident  to  incident,  from  capacity  to  capacity,  ap- 
parently without  system,  yet  actually  with  the  keen- 
est desire  to  fulfill  himself;  with  an  honesty  as 
inveterate  as  his  looks  were  good  and  his  character 
filled  with  dark  recesses.  In  vain  had  his  father 
endeavoured  to  induce  him  to  enter  the  lumber  busi- 
ness ;  to  him  it  seemed  too  conventional  and  fixe'd. 

Yet,  in  his  way,  he  knew  the  business  well.  By 
instinct,  over  the  twenty-five  years  of  his  life,  he 
had  observed  and  become  familiar  with  the  main 
features  of  the  work.  He  had  once  or  twice  even 
buried  himself  in  the  shanties  of  the  back- woods, 
there  to  inhale  and  repulse  the  fetid  air,  to  endure 
the  untoward,  half -savage  life,  the  clean  strong  food, 
the  bitter  animosities  and  the  savage  friend- 
ships. It  was  a  land  where  sunshine  travelled,  and 
in  the  sun  the  bright,  tuneful  birds  made  lively 
the  responsive  world.  Sometimes  an  eagle  swooped 
down  the  stream ;  again  and  again,  hawks,  and  flocks 

23 


24 Carnac's  Folly 

of  pigeons  which  frequented  the  lonely  groves  on  the 
river-side,  made  vocal  the  world  of  air;  flocks  of 
wild  ducks,  or  geese,  went  whirring  down  the  long 
spaces  of  water  between  the  trees  on  either  banks; 
and  some  one  with  a  fiddle  or  a  concertina  made 
musical  the  evening,  while  the  singing  voices  of 
rough  habitants  rang  through  the  air. 

It  was  all  spirited;  it  smelt  good;  it  felt  good; 
but  it  was  not  for  Camac.  When  he  had  a  revolt 
against  anything  in  life,  the  grim  storm  scenes  of 
winter  in  the  shanties  under  the  trees  and  the  snow- 
swept  hills  came  to  his  mind's  eye.  The  summer 
life  of  the  river,  and  what  is  called  "running  the 
river,"  had  for  him  great  charms.  The  smell  of 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  logs  in  the  river,  the 
crushed  bark,  the  slimy  ooze  were  all  suggestive 
of  life  in  the  making.  But  the  savage  seclusion  of 
the  wild  life  in  winter  repelled  his  senses.  Besides, 
the  lumber  business  meant  endless  figures  and  meas- 
urements in  stuffy  offices  and  he  retreated  from 
it  all. 

He  had  an  artistic  bent.  From  a  small  child 
he  had  had  it,  and  it  grew  with  his  years.  He 
wanted  to  paint,  and  he  painted ;  he  wanted  to  sculp 
in  clay,  and  he  sculped  in  clay ;  but  all  the  time  he 


Eleven  Years  Pass 25 

was  conscious  it  was  the  things  he  had  seen  and  the 
life  he  had  lived  which  made  his  painting  and  his 
sculpture  worth  while.  It  was  absurd  that  a  man 
of  his  great  outdoor  capacity  should  be  the  slave  of  a 
temperamental  quality,  and  yet  it  was  so.  It  was 
no  good  for  his  father  to  condemn,  or  his  mother 
to  mourn,  he  went  his  own  way. 

He  had  seen  much  of  Junia  Shale  in  these  years 
and  had  grown  fond  of  her,  but  she  was  away  much 
with  an  aunt  in  the  West,  and  she  was  sent  to 
boarding-school,  and  they  saw  each  other  only  at 
intervals.  She  liked  him  and  showed  it,  but  he  was 
not  ready  to  go  farther.  As  yet  his  art  was  everything 
to  him,  and  he  did  not  think  of  marriage.  He  was 
care-free.  He  had  a  little  money  of  his  own,  left  by 
an  uncle  of  his  mother,  and  he  had  also  an  allowance 
from  his  mother — ^none  from  his  father — and  he 
was  satisfied  with  life. 

His  brother,  Fabian,  being  the  elder,  by  five 
years,  had  gone  into  his  father's  business  as  a  part- 
ner, and  had  remained  there.  Fabian  had  at  last  mar- 
ried an  elder  sister  of  Junia  Shale  and  settled  down 
in  a  house  on  the  hill,  and  the  lumber-king,  John 
Grier,  went  on  building  up  his  splendid  business. 

At  last,  Carnac,  feeling  he  was  making  small 


26 Carnac's  Folly 

headway  with  his  painting,  determined  to  go  again 
to  New  York  and  Paris.  He  had  already  spent  a 
year  in  each  place  and  it  had  benefited  him  greatly. 
So,  with  that  sudden  decision  which  marked  his  life, 
he  started  for  New  York.  It  was  immediately  after 
the  New  Year  and  the  ground  was  covered  with 
snow.  He  looked  out  of  the  window  of  the  train, 
and  there  was  only  the  long  line  of  white  country 
broken  by  the  leafless  trees  and  rail-fences  and  the 
mansard-roofs  and  low  cottages  with  their  stoops, 
built  up  with  earth  to  keep  them  warm;  and  the 
sheds  full  of  cattle ;  and  here  and  there  a  saw-mill 
going  hard,  and  factories  pounding  away  and  men  in 
fur  coats  driving  the  small  Indian  ponies ;  and  the 
sharp  calls  of  the  men  with  the  sleigh  bringing 
wood,  or  meat,  or  vegetables  to  market.  He  was  by 
nature  a  queer  compound  of  Kadical  and  Conserva- 
tive, a  victim  of  vision  and  temperament.  He  was 
full  of  pride,  yet  fuller  of  humility  of  a  real  kind. 
As  he  left  Montreal  he  thought  of  Junia  Shale,  and 
he  recalled  the  day  eleven  years  before  when  he 
had  worn  brass-toed  boots,  and  he  had  caught  Junia 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  Denzil  had  had  his 
accident.  Denzil  had  got  unreasonably  old  since 
then;  but  Junia  remained  as  she  was  the  joyous  day 


Eleven  Years  Pass 27 

when  boyhood  took  on  the  first  dreams  of  manhood. 

Life  was  a  queer  thing,  and  he  had  not  yet  got 
his  bearings  in  it.  He  had  a  desire  to  reform  the 
world  and  he  wanted  to  be  a  great  painter  or  sculp- 
tor, or  both;  and  he  entered  New  York  with  a  new 
sense  developed.  He  was  keen  to  see,  to  do,  and  to 
feel.  He  wanted  to  make  the  world  ring  with  his 
name  and  fame,  yet  he  wanted  to  do  the  world  good 
also,  if  he  could.  It  was  a  curious  state  of  mind 
for  the  English  boy,  who  talked  French  like  a  native 
and  loved  French  literature  and  the  French  people, 
and  was  angry  with  those  English-Canadians  who 
were  so  selfish  they  would  never  learn  French. 

Arrived  in  New  York  he  took  lodgings  near  old 
"Washington  Square,  where  there  were  a  few  studios 
near  the  Bohemian  restaurants  and  a  life  as  nearly 
continental  as  was  possible  in  a  new  country.  He 
got  in  touch  with  a  few  artists  and  began  to  paint, 
doing  little  scenes  in  the  Bowery  and  of  the  night- 
life of  New  York,  and  visiting  the  Hudson  River  and 
Long  Island  for  landscape  and  seascape  sketches. 

One  day  he  was  going  down  Broadway,  and  near 
Madison  Square  he  saved  a  girl  from  being  killed 
by  a  street-car.  She  had  slipped  and  fallen  on  the 
track  and  a  car  was  coming.    It  was  impossible  for 


28       Carnac's  Folly 


her  to  get  away  in  time,  and  Carnae  had  sprung  to 
her  and  got  her  free.  She  staggered  to  her  feet,  and 
he  saw  she  was  beautiful  and  foreign.  He  spoke 
to  her  in  French  and  her  eyes  lighted,  for  she  was 
French.  She  told  him  at  once  that  her  name  was 
Luzanne  Larue.  He  offered  to  get  a  cab  and  take 
her  home,  but  she  said  no,  she  was  fit  to  walk,  so  he 
went  with  her  slowly  to  her  home  in  one  of  the  poor 
streets  on  the  East  side.  They  talked  as  they  went, 
and  Carnac  saw  she  was  of  the  lower  middle-class, 
with  more  refinement  than  was  cojnmon  in  that 
class,  and  more  charm.  She  was  a  fascinating  girl 
with  fine  black  eyes,  black  hair,  a  complexion  of 
cream,  and  a  gift  of  the  tongue.  Carnac  could  not 
see  that  she  was  very  subtle.  She  seemed  a  marvel 
of  guilelessness.  She  had  a  wonderful  head  and 
neck,  and  as  he  was  planning  a  picture  of  an  early 
female  martyr,  he  decided  to  ask  her  to  sit  to  him. 

Arrived  at  her  humble  home,  he  was  asked  to 
enter,  and  there  he  met  her  father,  Isel  Larue,  a 
French  monarchist  who  had  been  exiled  from  Paris 
for  plotting  against  the  Government.  He  was 
handsome  with  snapping  black  eyes,  a  cruel  mouth 
and  a  droll  and  humorous  tongue.  He  was  grateful 
to  Carnac  for  saving  his  daughter's  life.  Coffee 
and  cigarettes  were  produced,  and  they  chatted  and 


Eleven  Years  Pass 29 

smoked  while  Camac  took  in  the  surroundings. 
Everything  was  plain,  but  spotlessly  clean,  and  he 
learned  that  Larue  made  his  living  by  doing  odd  jobs 
in  an  electric  firm.  He  was  just  home  from  his 
work.  Luzanne  was  employed  every  afternoon  in 
a  milliner's  shop,  but  her  evenings  were  free  after 
the  housework  was  done  at  9  o'clock.  Camac  in  a 
burst  of  enthusiasm  asked  if  she  would  sit  to  him 
as  a  model  in  the  mornings.  Her  father  instantly 
said,  of  course,  she  would. 

This  she  did  for  many  days,  and  sat  with  her 
hair  down  and  bared  neck,  as  handsome  and  modest 
as  a  female  martyr  should.  Camac  painted  her 
with  skill.  Sometimes  he  would  walk  with  her  to 
lunch,  and  make  her  eat  something  sustaining  and 
they  talked  freely  then,  though  little  was  said  while 
he  was  painting  her.  At  last  one  day  the  painting 
was  finished,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  wistfully 
when  he  told  her  he  would  not  need  another  sitting. 
Carnac,  overcome  by  her  sadness,  put  his  arms 
round  her  and  kissed  her  mouth,  her  eyes,  her  neck 
ravenously.  She  made  only  a  slight  show  of  resis- 
tance. When  he  stopped  she  said:  **Is  that  the  way 
you  keep  your  word  to  my  father?  I  am  here  alone 
and  you  embrace  me — ^is  that  fair?" 

**No,  it  isn't,  and  I  promise  I  won't  do  it  again, 


30  Carnac's  Folly 

Luzanne.  I  am  sorry.  I  wanted  your  friendship  to 
benefit  us  both,  and  now  I  've  spoiled  it  all. ' ' 

**No,  you  haven't  spoiled  it  all,"  said  Luzanne 
with  a  sigh,  and  she  buttoned  up  the  neck  of  her 
blouse,  flushing  slightly  as  she  did  so.  Her  breast 
heaved  and  suddenly  she  burst  into  tears.  It  was 
evident  she  wanted  Camac  to  comfort  her,  perhaps 
to  kiss  her  again,  but  he  did  not  do  so.  He  only 
stood  over  her,  murmuring  penance  and  asking  her 
to  forget  it. 

**I  can't  forget  it — ^I  can't.  No  man  but  my 
father  has  ever  kissed  me  before.  It  makes  me, 
oh!  so  miserable!"  but  she  smiled  through  her 
tears.  Suddenly  she  dried  her  eyes.  * '  Once  a  man 
tried  to  kiss  me — and  something  more.  He  was 
rich  and  he'd  put  money  into  Madame  Mar  got 's 
millinery  business.  He  was  brilliant,  and  married, 
but  he  had  no  rules  for  his  morals — all  he  wanted 
was  money  and  pleasures  which  he  bought.  I  was 
attracted  by  him,  but  one  day  he  tried  to  kiss  me. 
I  slapped  his  face,  and  then  I  hated  him.  So,  when 
you  kissed  me  to-day,  I  thought  of  that,  and  it  made 
me  unhappy — ^but  yes." 

**You  did  not  slap  my  face,  Luzanne?" 

She  blushed  and  hung  her  head.    **No,  I  did 


Eleven  Years  Pass  31 

not ;  you  are  not  a  bad  man.  He  would  have  spoiled 
my  life.  He  made  it  clear  I  could  have  all  the  lux- 
uries money  could  buy — all  except  marriage ! ' '  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Carnac  was  of  an  impressionable  nature,  but 
brought  to  face  the  possibility  of  marriage  with 
Luzanne,  he  shrank.  If  ever  he  married  it  would 
be  a  girl  like  Junia  Shale,  beautiful,  modest,  clever 
and  well  educated.  No,  Luzanne  could  never  be  for 
him.  So  he  forebore  doing  more  than  ask  her  to 
forgive  him,  and  he  would  take  her  to  lunch — the 
last  lunch  of  the  picture — if  she  would.  With  fea- 
tures in  chagrin,  she  put  on  her  hat,  yet  when  she 
turned  to  him,  she  was  smiling. 

He  visited  her  home  occasionally,  and  Luzanne 's 
father  had  a  friend.  Ingot  by  name  who  was  some- 
times present.  This  man  made  himself  almost  un- 
bearable at  first;  but  Luzanne  pulled  Ingot  up 
acridly,  and  he  presently  behaved  well.  Ingot  disliked 
all  men  in  better  positions  than  himself,  and  was  a 
revolutionary  of  the  worst  sort — a  revolutionary  and 
monarchist.  He  was  only  a  monarchist  because 
he  loved  conspiracy  and  hated  the  Republican 
rulers  who  had  imprisoned  him — "those  bom- 
bastics,"  he  called  them.    It  was  a  constitutional 


32  Carnac's  Folly 

quarrel  with  the  world.  Howeyer,  he  became 
tractable,  and  then  he  and  Larue  formed  a  plot  to 
make  Carnac  marry  Luzanne.  It  was  hatched  by 
Ingot,  approved  by  Larue,  and  at  length  consented 
to  by  the  girl,  for  so  far  as  she  could  love  anyone, 
she  loved  Carnac;  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that 
if  he  married  her,  no  matter  how,  she  would  make 
him  so  happy  he  would  forgive  all. 

About  four  months  after  the  incident  in  the 
studio,  a  picnic  was  arranged  for  the  Hudson  River. 
Only  the  four  went.  Carnac  had  just  sold  a  picture 
at  a  good  price — his  Christian  Martyr  picture — and 
he  was  in  high  spirits.  They  arrived  at  the  spot 
arranged  for  the  picnic  in  time  for  lunch,  and 
Luzanne  prepared  it.  When  the  lunch  was  ready, 
they  sat  down.  There  was  much  gay  talk,  compli- 
ments to  Carnac  came  from  both  Larue  and  Ingot, 
and  Carnac  was  excited  and  buoyant.  He  drank 
much  wine  and  beer,  and  told  amusing  stories  of  the 
French-Canadians  which  delighted  them  all.  He 
had  a  gift  of  mimicry  and  he  let  himself  go. 

**You  got  a  pretty  fine  tongue  in  your  head — 
but  of  the  best,"  said  Ingot  with  a  burst  of  applause. 
**  You'd  make  a  good  actor,  a  holy  good  actor.  You 
got  a  way  with  you.    Coquelin,  Salvini,  Bernhardt  I 


Eleven  Years  Pass 33 

Voila,  you're  just  as  good!  Bagosh,  I'd  like  to  see 
you  on  the  stage. ' ' 

**So  would  I,"  said  Larue.  "I  think  you  could 
play  a  house  full  in  no  time  and  make  much  cash — 
I  think  you  could.    Don't  you  think  so,  Luzanne?" 

Luzanne  laughed.  "He  can  act  very  first-class, 
I'm  sure,"  she  said,  and  she  turned  and  looked 
Camao  in  the  eyes.  She  was  excited,  she  was  hand- 
some, she  was  slim  and  graceful,  and  Camac  felt 
towards  her  as  he  did  the  day  at  the  studio,  as 
though  he'd  like  to  kiss  her.  He  knew  it  was  not 
real,  but  it  was  the  man  in  him  and  the  sex  in  her. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  lunch  went  on,  all 
growing  gayer,  and  then  at  last  Ingot  said:  "Well, 
I'm  going  to  have  a  play  now  here,  and  Camac  Grier 
shall  act,  and  we  all  shall  act.  We're  going  to  have 
a  wedding  ceremony  between  M'sieu'  Grier  and 
Luzanne — but,  hush,  why  not!"  he  added,  when 
Luzanne  shook  her  finger  at  him,  and  said  she'd 
do  nothing  of  the  kind,  having,  however,  agreed  to 
it  beforehand.  "Why  not!  There's  nothing  in  it. 
They'U  both  be  married  some  day  and  it  will  be 
good  practice  for  them.  They  can  learn  now  how  to 
do  it    It's  got  to  be  done — ^but  yes.    I'll  find  a 

3 


34 Carnac's  Folly 

Judge  in  the  village.  Come  now,  hands  up,  those 
that  wiU  do  it" 

With  a  loud  laugh  Larue  held  up  his  hand, 
Carnac,  who  was  half -drunk,  did  the  same,  and  after 
a  little  hesitation  Luzanne  also. 

''Good — a  gay  little  comedy,  that's  what  it  is. 
I'm  off  for  the  Judge,"  and  away  went  Ingot  hard 
afoot,  having  already  engaged  a  Judge,  called 
Grimshaw,  in  the  village  near  to  perform  the 
ceremony.  When  he  had  gone,  Larue  went  off  to 
smoke  and  Luzanne  and  Carnac  cleared  up  the  lunch- 
things  and  put  all  away  in  the  baskets.  When  it 
was  finished,  Carnac  and  Luzanne  sat  down  under 
a  tree  and  talked  cheerfully,  and  Luzanne  was 
never  so  effective  as  she  was  that  day.  They 
laughed  over  the  mock  ceremony  to  be  performed. 

''I'm  a  Catholic,  you  know,"  said  Luzanne,  "and 
it  isn't  legal  in  my  church  with  no  dispensation  to 
be  married  to  a  Protestant  like  you.  But  as  it  is. 
what  does  it  matter!" 

"Well,  that's  true,"  said  Carnac.  "I  suppose 
I  ought  to  be  acting  the  lover  now;  I  ought  to  be 
kissing  you,  oughtn't  I?" 

"As  an  actor,  yes,  but  as  a  man,  better  not 
unless  others   are  present.    Wait  till  the  others 


Eleven  Years  Pass 35 

come.  Wait  for  witnesses,  so  that  it  can  look  like 
the  real  thing.  See,  there  they  come  now."  She 
pointed,  and  in  the  near  distance  Ingot  could  be  seen 
approaching  with  a  short,  clean-shaven,  roly-poly 
sort  of  man  who  did  not  look  legal,  but  was  a  real 
magistrate.  He  came  waddling  along  in  good  spirits 
and  rather  pompously.  At  that  moment  Larue 
appeared.  Presently  Ingot  presented  the  Judge  to 
the  would-be  bride  and  bridegroom.  ''You  wish  to 
be  married — you  are  Mr.  Grier?"  said  Judge 
Grimshaw. 

*  *  That 's  me  and  I  'm  ready, ' '  said  Carnac.  *  *  Get 
on  with  the  show.    What^s  the  first  thing?" 

**Well,  the  regular  thing  is  to  sign  some  forms, 
stating  age,  residence,  etc.,  and  here  they  are  all 
ready.  Brought  'em  along  with  me.  Most  unusual 
form  of  ceremony,  but  it'll  do  in  the  circumstances. 
It's  all  right.    Here  are  the  papers  to  sign." 

Carnac  hastily  scratched  in  the  needed  informa- 
tion, and  Luzanne  doing  the  same,  the  magistrate 
pocketed  the  papers. 

"Now  we  can  perform  the  ceremony,"  said  the 
Judge.  "Mr.  Larue,  you  go  down  there  with  the 
young  lady  and  bring  her  up  in  form,  and  Mr. 
Carnac  Grier  waits  here." 


36 Carnac's  Folly 


Lame  went  away  with.  Luzaime,  and  presently 
turned  and  she,  with  her  arm  in  his,  came  forward. 
Carnac  stood  waiting  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  for 
it  seemed  good  acting.  "When  Luzamie  came,  her 
father  handed  her  over,  and  the  marriage  ceremony 
proceeded.  Presently  it  concluded,  and  Grimshaw, 
who  had  had  more  drink  than  was  good  for  him, 
wound  up  the  ceremony  with  the  wprds,  **And  may 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  you!" 

Every  one  laughed,  Carnac  kissed  the  bride,  and 
the  Judge  handed  her  the  marriage  certificate  duly 
signed.  It  was  now  Carnac *s  duty  to  pay  in  the 
usual  way  for  the  ceremony,  and  he  handed  the 
Judge  ten  dollars;  and  Grimshaw  rolled  away  to- 
wards the  village.  Ingot  having  also  given  him  ten. 

** That's  as  good  a  piece  of  acting  as  I've  ever 
seen,"  said  Larue  with  a  grin.  **It  beats  CoqueUn 
and  Henry  Irving." 

"I  didn't  thiuk  there  was  m,uch  in  it,"  said 
Carnac,  laughing,  *' though  it  was  real  enough  to 
cost  me  ten  dollars.  One  has  to  pay  for  one's  fun. 
But  I  got  a  wife  cheap  at  the  price,  and  I  didn't 
pay  for  the  wedding  ring. ' ' 

**No,  the  ring  was  mine,"  said  Larue.  *'I  had 
it  a  long  time.  It  was  my  engagement  ring,  and 
I  want  it  back  now." 


Eleven  Years  Pass  37 

Luzaime  took  it  off  her  finger — it  was  much  too 
large — and  gave  it  to  him.  ''It's  easy  enough  to 
get  another, ' '  she  said  in  a  queer  voice. 

''You  did  the  thing  in  style,  young  man,"  said 
Ingot  to  Carnac  with  a  nod. 

"I'll  do  it  better  when  it's  the  real  thing,"  said 
Carnac.  "I've  had  my  rehearsal  now,  and  it 
seemed  almost  real." 

"It  was  ahnost  real,"  said  Ingot,  with  his  head 
turned  away  from  Carnac,  but  he  winked  at  Larue 
and  caught  a  furtive  look  from  Luzanne's  eye. 

"I  think  we'd  better  have  another  hour  here- 
abouts, then  get  back  to  New  York,"  said  Larue. 
' '  There 's  a  circus  in  the  village — ^let  us  go  to  that. ' ' 

At  the  village,  they  did  the  circus,  called  out 
praise  to  the  clown,  gave  the  elephant  some  buns, 
and  at  five  o'clock  started  back  to  New  York. 
Arrived  at  New  York,  they  went  to  a  hotel  off 
Broadway  for  dinner,  and  Carnac  signed  names  in 
the  hotel  register  as  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carnac  Grier." 
"When  he  did  it,  he  saw  a  furtive  glance  pass  from 
Luzanne  's  eyes  to  her  father.  It  was  disconcerting 
to  him.  Presently  the  two  adjourned  to  the  sitting- 
room,  and  there  he  saw  that  the  table  was  only  laid 
for  two.  That  opened  his  eyes.  The  men  had  dis- 
appeared and  he  and  Luzanne  were  alone.     She  was 


38 Carnac's  Folly 

sitting  on  a  sofa  near  the  table,  showing  to  good 
advantage.  She  was  composed,  while  Camac  was 
embarrassed.  Camac  began  to  take  a  grip  on  himself. 

The  waiter  entered.  ''When  shall  I  serve  din- 
ner, sir?"  he  said. 

Camac  realized  that  the  dinner  had  been  ordered 
by  the  two  men,  and  he  said  quietly:  ''Don't  serve 
it  for  a  half -hour  yet — not  till  I  ring,  please.  Make 
it  ready  then.    There's  no  hurry.    It's  early." 

The  waiter  bowed  and  withdrew  with  a  smile, 
and  Carnac  turned  to  Luzanne.  She  smiled,  got 
up,  came  over,  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said: 
"It's  quiet  and  nice  here,  Camac  dear,"  and  she 
looked  up  ravishingly  in  his  face. 

"It's  too  quiet  and  it's  not  at  all  nice,"  he 
suddenly  replied.  "Your  father  and  Ingot  have 
gone.  They've  left  us  alone  on  purpose.  This  is 
a  dirty  game  and  I'm  not  going  to  play  it  any 
longer.  I've  had  enough  of  it.  I've  had  my  fill. 
I'm  going  now.    Come,  let's  go  together." 

She  looked  a  bit  smashed  and  overdone.  "The 
dinner ! ' '  she  said  in  confusion. 

"I'll  pay  for  that.  We  won't  wait  any  longer. 
Come  on  at  once,  please." 

She  put  on  her  things  coolly,  and  he  noticed  a 


Eleven  Years  Pass 39 

savage  stealthiness  as  she  pushed  the  long  pins 
through  her  hat  and  hair.  He  left  the  room.  Out- 
side the  hotel,  Camac  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good  night  and  good-bye,  Luzanne,"  he  said 
huskily.     '*You  can  get  home  alone,  can't  youf " 

She  laughed  a  little,  then  she  said:  "I  guess 
so.  I've  lived  in  New  York  some  years.  But  you 
and  I  are  married,  Carnac,  and  you  ought  to  take 
me  to  your  home. ' ' 

There  was  something  devilish  in  her  smile  now. 
Then  the  whole  truth  burst  upon  Camac.  * '  Married 
— married!    When  did  I  marry  you?     Good  God!" 

"You  married  me  this  afternoon  after  lunch  at 
Shipton.  I  have  the  certificate  and  I  mean  to  hold 
you  to  it." 

"You  mean  to  hold  me  to  it — a  real  marriage 
to-day  at  Shipton !  You  and  your  father  and  Ingot 
tricked  me  into  this." 

"He  was  a  real  Judge,  and  it  was  a  real 
marriage. ' ' 

"It  is  a  fraud,  and  I'll  unmask  it,"  Camac 
declared  in  anger. 

*  *  It  would  be  difl&cult  to  prove.  You  signed  our 
names  in  the  hotel  register  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carnac 
Grier.    I  mean  to  stick  to  that  name — Mrs.  Carnac 


42 Carnac's  Folly 

Grier.  I'll  make  you  a  good  wife,  Camac — do 
believe  it." 

''I'll  believe  nothing  but  the  worst  of  you  ever. 
I'U  fight  the  thing  out,  by  God!" 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  "I  meant  you 
to  marry  me,  when  you  saved  my  life  from  the  street- 
car. I  never  saw  but  one  man  I  wanted  to  marry, 
and  you  are  that  man,  Camac.  You  wouldn't  ask 
me,  so  I  made  you  marry  me.  You  could  go  farther 
and  fare  worse.  Come,  take  me  home — take  me 
home,  my  love.    I  want  you  to  love  me. ' ' 

''You  little  devil!"  Camac  declared.  "I'd 
rather  cut  my  own  throat.  I'm  going  to  have  a 
divorce.  I'm  going  to  teach  you  and  the  others  a 
lesson  you  won't  forget." 

"There  isn't  a  jury  in  the  United  States  you 
could  convince  after  what  you've  done.  You've 
made  it  impossible.  Go  to  Judge  Grimshaw  and 
see  what  he  will  say.  Go  and  ask  the  hotel  people 
and  see  what  they  wiU  say.  You're  my  husband, 
and  I  mean  you  shall  live  with  me,  and  I'll  love 
you  better  than  any  woman  on  earth  can  love  you. 
.  .  .  Won't  you?"     She  held  out  her  hand. 

With  an  angry  exclamation,  Camac  refused  it, 
and  then  she  suddenly  turned  on  her  heel,  slipped 
round  a  comer  and  was  gone. 


''you'ue  my  husband,  and  I'll  love  you  better  than  any  woman 
ox  earth  can  love  you  " 


Eleven  Years  Pass 41 

Camac  was  dumbfounded.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  He  went  dazedly  home,  and  slept  little 
that  night.  The  next  day  he  went  out  to  Shipton 
and  saw  Judge  Grimshaw  and  told  him  the  whole 
tale.     The  Judge  shook  his  head. 

**It's  too  tall  a  story.  Why,  you  went  through 
the  ceremony  as  if  it  was  the  real  thing,  signed  the 
papers,  paid  my  fee,  and  kissed  the  bride.  You 
could  not  get  a  divorce  on  such  evidence.  I'm  sorry 
for  you,  if  you  don't  want  the  girl.  She's  very 
nice,  and'd  make  a  good  wife.  What  does  she 
mean  to  do?" 

**I  don't  know.  She  left  me  in  the  street  and 
went  back  to  her  home.    I  won't  live  with  her." 

"I  can't  help  you  anyhow.  She  has  the  certifi- 
cate. You  are  validly  married.  If  I  were  you,  I'd 
let  the  matter  stand." 

So  they  parted,  and  Carnac  sullenly  went  back 
to  his  apartments.  The  next  day  he  went  to  see 
a  lawyer,  however.  The  lawyer  opened  his  eyes 
at  the  story.    He  had  never  heard  anything  like  it. 

"It  doesn't  sound  as  if  you  were  sober  when  you 
did  it.  Were  you,  sir?  It  was  a  mad  prank,  anyhow  I ' ' 

*'I  had  been  drinking,  but  I  wasn't  drunk.  I'd 
been  teUing  them  stories  and  they  used  them  as  a 
means  of  tempting  me  to  act  in  the  absurd  marriage 


42 Carnac's  Folly 

ceremony.  Like  a  fool  I  consented.  Like  a  fool — 
but  I  wasn't  drunk." 

**No,  but  when  you  were  in  your  right  mind 
and  sober  you  signed  your  names  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Oarnac  Grier  in  the  register  of  a  hotel.  I  will  try 
to  win  your  case  for  you,  but  it  won't  be  easy  work. 
You  see  the  Judge  himself  told  you  the  same  thing. 
But  it  would  be  a  triumph  to  expose  a  thing  of  that 
kind,  and  I'd  like  to  do  it.  It  wouldn't  be  cheap, 
though.  You  'd  have  to  foot  the  bill.    Are  you  rich  ? ' ' 

"No,  but  my  people  are,"  said  Camac.  *'I 
could  manage  the  cash,  but  suppose  I  lost!" 

**Well,  you'd  have  to  support  the  woman.  She 
could  sue  you  for  cruelty  and  desertion,  and  the 
damages  would  be  heavy. ' ' 

Carnac  shook  his  head,  paid  his  fee  and  left 
the  office. 

He  did  not  go  near  Luzanne.  After  a  month  he 
went  to  Paris  for  eight  months,  and  then  back 
to  Montreal. 


Chapter  III  Carnac^s  Return 

A  REIVED  in  Montreal,  there  were  attempts  by 
Carnac  to  settle  down  to  ordinary  life  of  quiet 
work  at  his  art,  but  it  was  not  effective,  nor  had  it 
been  in  Paris,  though  the  excitement  of  working  in 
the  great  centre  had  stimulated  him.  He  ever  kept 
saying  to  himself,  * '  Carnac,  you  are  a  married  man 
— a  married  man,  by  the  tricks  of  rogues!"  In 
Paris,  he  could  more  easily  obscure  it,  but  in 
Montreal,  a  few  hundred  miles  from  the  place  of  his 
tragedy,  pessimism  seized  him.  He  now  repented 
he  did  not  fight  it  out  at  once.  It  would  have  been 
courageous  and  perhaps  successful.  But  whether 
successful  or  not,  he  would  have  put  himself  right 
with  his  own  conscience.  That  was  the  chief  thing. 
He  was  straightforward,  and  back  again  in  Canada, 
Carnac  flung  reproaches  at  himself. 

He  knew  himself  now  to  be  in  love  with  Junia 
Shale,  and  because  he  was  married  he  could  not 
approach  her.  It  galled  him.  He  was  not  fond  of 
Fabian,  for  they  had  little  in  common,  and  he  had 
no  intimate  friends.  Only  his  mother  was  always 
sympathetic  to  him,  and  he  loved  her.    He  saw  much 

43 


44 Carnac's  Folly 

of  her,  but  little  of  anyone  else.  He  belonged  to 
no  clubs,  and  there  were  few  artists  in  Montreal. 
So  he  lived  his  own  life,  and  when  he  met  Junia  he 
cavilled  at  himself  for  his  madness  with  Luzanne. 
The  curious  thing  was  he  had  not  had  a  word  from 
her  since  the  day  of  the  mock  marriage.  Perhaps 
she  had  decided  to  abandon  the  thing!  But  that 
could  do  no  good,  for  there  was  the  marriage  recorded 
in  the  registers  of  New  York  State. 

Meanwhile,  things  were  not  going  well  with 
others.  There  befell  a  day  when  matters  came  to 
a  crisis  in  the  Grier  family.  Since  Fabian's  mar- 
riage with  Junia  Shale's  sister,  Sybil,  he  had  become 
discontented  with  his  position  in  his  father's  firm. 
There  was  little  love  between  him  and  his  father, 
and  that  was  chiefly  the  father's  fault.  One  day, 
the  old  man  stormed  at  Fabian  because  of  a  mistake 
in  the  management,  and  was  foolish  enough  to  say 
that  Fabian  had  lost  his  grip  since  his  marriage. 

Fabian,  enraged,  demanded  freedom  from  the 
partnership,  and  offered  to  sell  his  share.  In  a 
fit  of  anger,  the  old  man  offered  him  what  was 
at  least  ten  per  cent,  more  than  the  value  of  Fabian's 
share.  The  sombre  Fabian  had  the  offer  transferred 
to  paper  at  once,  and  it  was  signed  by  his  father — 


Carnac^s  Return 4£ 

not  without  compunction,  because,  difficult  as  Fabian 
was,  he  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse.  As  for 
Fabian's  dark-haired,  brown-faced,  brown-eyed 
wife,  to  John  Grier's  mind,  it  seemed  a  good  thing 
to  be  rid  of  her. 

When  Fabian  left  the  father  alone  in  his  offi'je, 
however;  the  stark  temper  of  the  old  man  broke 
down.  He  had  had  enough.  He  muttered  to  him- 
self. Presently  he  was  roused  by  a  little  knock  at 
the  door.  It  was  Junia,  brilliant,  buoyant,  yellow 
haired,  with  bright  brown  eyes,  tingling  cheeks,  and 
white  laughing  teeth  that  showed  against  her  red 
lips.    She  held  up  a  finger  at  him. 

**I  know  what  you've  done,  and  it's  no  good  at 
all.  You  can't  live  without  us,  and  you  mustn't," 
she  said. 

The  old  man  glowered  stiQ,  but  a  reflective  smile 
crawled  to  his  lips.  **No,  it's  finished,"  he  replied. 
**It  had  to  come,  and  it's  done.  It  can't  be  changed. 
Fabian  wouldn't  alter  it,  and  I  shan't." 

His  face  was  stem  and  dour.  He  tangled  his 
short  fingers  in  the  hair  on  top  of  his  head. 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  if  I  were  you,"  she  re- 
sponded cheerily.    * '  Fabian  showed  me  the  sum  you 


46 Garnac's  Folly 

offered  for  his  share.  It's  ridiculous.  The  business 
isn't  worth  it." 

**What  do  you  know  about  the  business?" 
remarked  the  other. 

"Well,  whatever  it  was  worth  an  hour  ago,  it's 
worth  less  now,"  she  answered  with  suggestion. 
**It's  worth  much  less  now,"  she  added. 

''What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  asked 
sharply,  sitting  upright,  his  hands  clasping  his  knees 
almost  violently,  his  clean-shaven  face  showing  lines 
of  trouble. 

*'I  mean  he's  going  to  join  the  enemy,"  she 
answered  quickly. 

"Join  the  enemy!"  broke  from  the  old  man's 
lips  with  a  startled  accent. 

"Yes,  the  firm  of  Belloo." 

The  old  man  did  not  speak,  but  a  curious  white- 
ness stole  over  his  face.  "What  makes  you  say 
that!"  he  exclaimed,  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"Well  Fabian  has  to  put  money  into  something," 
she  answered,  "and  the  only  business  he  knows  is 
lumber  business.  Don't  you  think  it's  natural 
he  should  go  to  Belloc?" 

"Did  he  ever  say  so?"  asked  the  old  man  with 
savage  sullenness.    *  *  Tell  me.    Did  he  ever  say  so  ?  " 


Carnac's  Return 47 

The  girl  shook  back  her  brave  head  with  a  laugh. 
**0f  course,  he  never  said  so,  but  I  know  the  way 
he'll  go.'' 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  *'I  don't  believe 
it.    He's  got  no  love  for  Belloc." 

The  girl  felt  like  saying,  **He's  got  no  love  for 
you, ' '  but  she  refrained.  She  knew  that  Fabian  had 
love  for  his  father,  but  he  had  inherited  a  love  for 
business,  and  that  would  overwhelm  all  other  feel- 
ings. She  therefore  said:  ''Why  don't  you  get 
Camac  to  come  in?  He's  got  more  sense  than 
Fabian — and  he  isn't  married!" 

She  spoke  boldly,  for  she  knew  the  character  of 
the  man.  She  was  ojily  nineteen.  She  had  always 
come  in  and  gone  out  of  Grier's  house  and  office  freely 
and  much  more  since  her  sister  had  married  Fabian. 

A  storm  gathered  between  the  old  man's  eyes; 
his  brow  knitted.  '  *  Carnac's  got  brains  enough,  but 
he  goes  monkeying  about  with  pictures  and  statues 
till  he's  worth  naught  in  the  busines  of  life." 

*'I  don't  think  you  understand  him,"  the  girl 
replied. 

**I've  been  trying  to  understand  him  for  twenty- 
five  years,"  the  other  said  malevolently.  **He 
might  have  been  a  big  man.    He  might  have  bossed 


48 Carnac's  Folly 

this  business  when  I'm  gone.  It's  in  him,  but  he's 
a  fly-away — he's  got  no  sense.  The  ideas  he's  got 
make  me  sick.  He  talks  like  a  damn  fool  sometimes. " 

''But  if  he's  ai  'damn  fool' — ^is  it  strange?" 
She  gaily  tossed  a  kiss  at  the  king  of  the  lumber 
world.  ' '  The  difference  between  you  and  him  is  this : 
he  doesn't  care  about  the  things  of  this  world,  and 
you  do;  but  he's  one  of  the  ablest  men  in  Canada. 
If  Fabian  won't  come  back,  why  not  Camac?" 

"We've  never  hit  it  off." 

Suddenly  he  stood  up,  his  face  flushed,  his  hands 
outthrust  themselves  in  rage,  his  fingers  opened  and 
closed  in  heat  of  temper. 

"Why  have  I  two  such  sons!"  he  exclaimed. 
"I've  not  been  bad.  I've  squeezed  a  few;  I've 
struck  here  and  there ;  I  've  mauled  my  enemies,  but 
I've  been  good  to  my  own.  Why  can't  I  run  square 
with  my  own  family?"  He  was  purple  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair.  Savagery  possessed  him.  Life  was 
testing  him  to  the  n*^**  degree.  "I've  been  a  good 
father  and  a  good  husband  I  Why  am  I  treated 
like  this?" 

She  watched  him  silently.  Presently,  however, 
the  storm  seemed  to  pass.  He  appeared  to  gain 
control  of  himself. 


Carnac's  Return 49 

**You  want  me  to  have  in  Camac?"  he  asked, 
with  a  little  fleck  of  foam  at  the  comers  of  his  mouth. 

**If  you  could  have  Fabian  back,"  she  remarked, 
**but  you  can't  I  It's  been  coming  for  a  long  time. 
He's  go,t  your  I.  0.  U.  and  he  won't  return;  but 
Carnac's  got  plenty  of  stuff  in  him.  He  never  was 
afraid  of  anything  or  anybody,  and  if  he  took  a 
notion,  he  could  do  this  business  as  well  as  yourself 
by  and  by.  It's  all  a  chance,  but  if  he  comes  in  he'll 
put  everything  else  aside. 

** Where  is  he?"  the  old  man  asked. 

"He's  with  his  mother  at  your  home." 

The  old  man  took  his  hat  from  the  window-sill. 
At  that  moment  a  clerk  appeared  with  some  papers. 

*  *  What  have  you  got  there  ? ' '  asked  Grier  sharply. 

*  *  The  Belloc  account  for  the  trouble  on  the  river, ' ' 
answered  the  clerk. 

*  *  Give  it  me, ' '  Grier  said,  and  he  waved  the  clerk 
away.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  account,  and  a  grim 
smile  passed  over  his  face.  **They  can't  have  all 
they  want;  and  they  won't  get  it.  Are  you  coming 
with  mel"  he  asked  of  the  girl,  with  a  set  look  in 
his  eyes. 

*'No.    I'm    going    back    to   my    sister,"    she 
answered. 
4 


52 Carnac's  Folly 

**If  he  leaves  me — ^if  he  joins  BellocI"  the  old 
man  muttered,  and  again  his  face  flushed. 

A  few  moments  afterwards  the  girl  watched  him 
till  he  disappeared  up  the  hill. 

"I  don't  believe  Camac  will  do  it,"  she  said 
to  herself.  ''He's  got  the  sense,  the  brains,  and 
the  energy;  but  he  won't  do  it." 

She  heard  a  voice  behind  her  and  turned.  It 
was  the  deformed  but  potent  Denzil.  He  was  greyer 
now.  His  head,  a  little  to  one  side,  seemed  sunk 
in  his  square  shoulders,  but  his  eyes  were  bright. 

*  'It's  all  a  bad  scrape — that  about  Fabian  Grier, ' ' 
he  said.  "You  can't  ever  tell  about  such  things, 
how  they'll  go — but  no,  bagoshi" 


Chapter  IV  The  House  on  the  Hill 

JOHN  GRIER'S  house  had  a  porch  with  Corin- 
thian pillars.  Its  elevation  was  noble,  but  it 
was  rather  crudely  built,  and  it  needed  its  grove  of 
maples  to  make  it  pleasant  to  the  eye.  It  was  large 
but  not  too  ample,  and  it  had  certain  rooms  with 
distinct  character. 

Inside  the  house,  John  Grier  paused  a  moment 
before  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  where  his  wife 
usually  sat.  All  was  silent.  He  opened  the  door. 
A  woman  rose  to  meet  him.  She  was  dressed  in 
black.  Her  dark  hair,  slightly  streaked  with  grey, 
gave  her  distinction.  Her  eyes  had  soft  understand- 
ing; her  lips  had  a  reflective  smile.  There  was, 
however,  uneasiness  in  her  face ;  her  fingers  slightly 
trembled  on  the  linen  she  was  holding. 

**You're  home  early,  John,"  she  said  in  a  gentle, 
reserved  voice. 

He  twisted  a  shoulder.  "Yes,  I*m  home  early," 
he  snapped.  **Your  boy  Fabian  has  left  the  busi- 
ness, and  IVe  bought  his  share."  He  named  the 
sum.  *  *  Ghastly,  ain  't  it  ?  But  he 's  gone,  and  there 's 
no  more  about  it.  It's  a  bad  thing  to  marry  a  woman 
that  can't  play  fair." 

s« 


52 Carnac's  Folly 

He  noted  the  excessive  paleness  of  his  -wife's 
face;  the  bright  eyes  stared  and  stared,  and  the 
lips  trembled. 

** Fabian — Fabian  gone!*'  she  said  brokenly. 

"Yes,  and  he  ain't  coming  back." 

*' What's  he  going  to  do?"  she  asked  in  a  bitter 
voice. 

**  Join  Belloc — ^fight  his  own  father — try  to  do  me 
in  the  race,"  growled  the  old  man. 

"Who  told  you  that!" 

*  *  Junia,  she  told  me. '  * 

"What  does  she  know  about  it?  Who  told  her 
that?"  asked  the  woman  with  faded  lips. 

"She  always  had  sense,  that  child.  I  wish  she 
was  a  man." 

He  suddenly  ground  his  heel,  and  there  was  dis- 
temper in  face  and  voice;  his  shoulders  hunched; 
his  hands  were  thrust  down  in  his  pockets.  He 
wheeled  on  her.  "Where's  your  other  boy? 
Where's  Camac?" 

The  woman  pointed  to  the  lawn.  *  *  He 's  catching 
a  bit  of  the  city  from  the  hill  just  beyond  the 
pear-tree." 

"Painting,  eh?  I  heard  he  was  here.  I  want 
to  talk  to  him." 


The  House  on  the  Hill 53 

**I  don't  tMnk  it  will  do  any  good,"  was  the  sad 
reply.    *'He  doesn't  think  as  you  do." 

"You  believe  he's  a  genius,"  snarled  the  other. 

"You  know  he  is." 

"I'll  go  and  find  him." 

She  nodded.  "I  wish  you  luck,"  she  said,  but 
there  was  no  conviction  in  her  tone.  Truth  was,  she 
did  not  wish  him  luck  in  this.  She  watched  him 
leave  by  the  French  window  and  stride  across  the 
lawn.  A  strange,  troubled  expression  was  in 
her  face. 

"They  can't  pull  it  off  together,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "and  Camac  is  too  full  of  independence. 
He  wants  nothing  from  anybody.  He  needs  no  one ; 
he  follows  no  one — except  me.  Yes,  he  follows — 
he  loves  me. ' ' 

She  watched  her  husband  till  he  almost  viciously 
thrust  aside  the  bushes  staying  his  progress,  and 
broke  into  the  space  by  the  pear-tree  where  Camac 
sat  with  palette  and  brush,  gazing  at  the  distant 
roofs  on  which  the  sun  was  leaving  its  last  kiss. 

Camac  got  to  his  feet  with  a  smile,  and  with 
a  courage  in  his  eye  equal  to  that  which  had  ever 
been  in  his  father's  face — ^in  the  face  of  John  Grier. 
It  was  strange  that  the  other's  presence  troubled 


54 Carnac's  Folly 

him,  that  even  as  a  small  child,  to  be  in  the  same 
room  for  any  length  of  time  vexed  him.  Much  of 
that  had  passed  away.  The  independence  of  the  life 
he  lived,  the  freedom  from  resting  upon  the  financial 
will  of  the  lumber-king  had  given  him  light,  air  and 
confidence.  He  loved  his  mother.  What  he  felt  for 
John  Grier  was  respect  and  admiration.  He  knew 
he  was  not  spoken  to  now  with  any  indolent  purpose. 

They  had  seen  little  of  each  other  of  late  years. 
His  mother  had  given  him  the  money  to  go  to  New 
York  and  Paris,  which  helped  out  his  own  limited 
income.  He  wondered  what  should  bring  his  father 
to  him  now.  There  was  interested  reflection  in  his 
eye.  With  his  habit  of  visualization,  he  saw  behind 
John  Grier,  as  he  came  on  now,  the  long  procession 
of  logs  and  timbers  which  had  made  his  fortune, 
stretch  back  on  the  broad  St.  Lawrence,  from  the 
Mattawan  to  the  Madawaska,  from  the  Richelieu  to 
the  Marmora.  Yet,  what  was  it  John  Grier  had 
done?  In  a  narrow  field  he  had  organized  his  life 
perfectly,  had  developed  his  opportunities,  had  safe- 
guarded his  every  move.  The  smiling  inquiry  in  his 
face  was  answered  by  the  old  man  saying  abruptly : 

"Fabian's  gone.    He's  deserted  the  ship." 


The  House  on  the  Hill 55 

The  young  man  had  the  wish  to  say  in  reply,' 
"At  last,  eh!'*    but  he  avoided  it. 

** Where  has  he  gone!" 

*'I  bought  him  out  to-day,  and  1  hear  he's  going 
to  join  Belloc." 

**BellocI  BellocI  Who  told  you  that!"  asked 
the  young  man. 

**Junia  Shale — she  told  me." 

Carnac  laughed.  **She  knows  a  lot,  but  how  did 
she  know  that?" 

"Sheer  instinct,  and  I  believe  she's  right." 

''Right — right — to  fight  you,  his  own  father!" 
was  the  inflammable  reply.  **Why,  that  would  be  a 
low-down  business!" 

"Would  it  be  lower  down  than  your  not  helping 
your  father,  when  you  can?" 

Somehow  he  yearned  over  his  wayward,  fantas- 
tic son.  The  wilful,  splendid  character  of  the  youth 
overcame  the  insistence  in  the  other's  nature. 

"You  seem  to  be  getting  on  all  right,"  remarked 
Carnac  with  the  faint  brown  moustache,  the  fine, 
showy  teeth,  the  clean-shaven  cheeks,  and  auburn 
hair  hanging  loosely  down. 

"You're  wrong.  Things  aren't  doing  as  well 
with  me  as  they  might.    Belloc  and  the  others  make 


56 Carnac's  Folly 


difficult  going.  I've  got  too  much  to  do  myself.  I 
want  help." 

**  You  had  it  in  Fabian,"  remarked  Camac  dryly. 

**Well,  I've  lost  it,  and  it  never  was  enough.  He 
hadn't  vision,  sense  and  decision." 

"And  so  you  come  to  me,  eh?  I  always  thought 
you  despised  me,"  said  Carnac. 

A  half-tender,  half-repellent  expression  came 
into  the  old  man's  face.  He  spoke  bluntly.  "I 
always  thought  you  had  three  times  the  brains  of 
your  brother.  You're  not  like  me,  and  you're  not 
like  your  mother;  there's  something  in  you  that 
means  vision,  and  seeing  things,  and  doing  them.  If 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  a  year  and  a  share  in  the 
business  is  any  good  to  you " 

For  an  instant  there  had  been  pleasure  and  won- 
der in  the  young  man's  eyes,  but  at  the  sound  of  the 
money  and  the  share  in  the  business  he  shrank  back. 

**I  don't  think  so,  father.  I'm  happy  enough. 
IVe  got  all  I  want." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about!"  the 
other  burst  out.  *  *  You  've  got  all  you  want !  You  've 
no  home ;  you've  no  wife ;  you've  no  children ;  you've 
no  place.  You  paint,  and  you  sculp,  and  what's 
the  good  of  it  all?    Have  you  ever  thought  of  that! 


The  House  on  the  Hill 57 

What's  there  in  it  for  you  or  anyone  else?  Have 
you  no  blood  and  bones,  no  sting  of  life  in  you? 
Look  what  I've  done.  I  started  with  little,  and  I've 
built  up  a  business  that,  if  it  goes  all  right,  will 
be  worth  millions.  I  say,  if  it  goes  all  right,  because 
I've  got  to  carry  more  than  I  ought." 

Camac  shook  his  head.  *'I  couldn't  be  any  help 
to  you.  I'm  not  a  man  of  action.  I  think,  I  devise, 
but  I  don't  act.  I'd  be  no  good  in  your  business — ^no, 
honestly,  I'd  be  no  good.  I  don't  think  money  is 
the  end  of  life.  I  don't  think  success  is  compensa- 
tion for  all  you've  done  and  still  must  do.  I  want 
to  stand  out  of  it.  You've  had  your  life;  you've 
lived  it  where  you  wanted  to  live  it.  I  haven't,  and 
I'm  trying  to  find  out  where  my  duty  and  my  labour 
lies.    It  is  Art;  no  doubt.    I  don't  know  for  sure." 

"Good  God!"  broke  in  the  old  man.  **You 
don't  know  for  sure — you're  twenty-five  years  old, 
and  you  don't  know  where  you're  going!" 

"Yes,  I  know  where  I'm  going — ^to  Heaven  by 
and  by !"    This  was  his  satirical  reply. 

"Oh,  fasten  down;  get  hold  of  something  that 
matters.  Now,  listen  to  me.  I  want  you  to  do  one 
thing — the  thing  I  ought  to  do  and  can't.    I  must 


£8 Carnacs  Folly 

stay  here  now  that  Fabian's  gone.  I  want  you  to 
go  north  to  the  Madawaska  River." 

"No,  I  won't  go  to  the  Madawaska,"  replied 
Camac  after  a  long  pause,  **but" — with  sudden 
resolution — **if  it's  any  good  to  you,  I'll  stay  here 
/  in  the  business,  and  you  can  go  to  the  Madawaska. 
Show  me  what  to  do  here;  tell  me  how  to  do  it, 
and  I'll  try  to  help  you  out  for  a  while — ^if  it  can 
be  done,"  he  added  hastily.  "You  must  go,  but  I'll 
stay.    Let's  talk  it  over  at  supper." 

He  sighed,  and  turned  and  gazed  warmly  at  the 
sunset  on  the  roofs  of  the  city;  then  turned  to  his 
father's  face,  but  it  was  not  the  same  look  in  his  eyes. 


Chapter  V  Carnac  as  Manager 

CARNAC  was  installed  in  the  oflBce,  and  John 
Grier  went  to  the  Madawaska.  Before  he 
left,  however,  he  was  with  Carnac  for  near  a  week, 
showing  the  procedure  and  the  main  questions  that 
might  arise  to  be  solved. 

"It's  like  this,"  said  Grier  in  their  last  talk, 
''you've  got  to  keep  a  stiff  hand  over  the  foremen 
and  overseers,  and  have  strict  watch  of  Belloc  & 
Co.  Perhaps  there  will  be  trouble  when  I've  gone, 
but,  if  it  does,  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  and  don't  let 
the  gang  do  you.  You've  got  a  quick  mind  and  you 
know  how  to  act  sudden.  Act  at  once,  and  damn  the 
consequences!  Remember,  John  Grier 's  firm  has  a 
reputation,  and  deal  justly,  but  firmly,  with  opposi- 
tion. The  way  it's  organized,  the  business  almost 
runs  itself.  But  that's  only  when  the  man  at  the 
head  keeps  his  finger  on  the  piston-rod.  You  savvy, 
don't  you?" 

"I  savvy  all  right.  If  the  Belloc  firm  cuts  up 
rusty,  I'll  think  of  what  you'd  do  and  try  to  do  it  in 
the  same  way." 

The   old  man  smiled.    He  liked  the  spirit  in 

59 


6o Carnac's  Folly 

Camac.  It  was  the  right  kind  for  his  business. 
**I  predict  this:  if  you  have  one  fight  with  the  Belloc 
lot,  you'll  hate  them  too.  Keep  the  flag  flying. 
Don't  get  rattled.  It's  a  big  job,  and  it's  worth 
doing  in  a  big  way. ' ' 

**Yes,  it's  a  big  job,"  said  Camac.  **I  hope 
I'll  pull  it  off." 

"You'll  pull  it  off,  if  you  bend  your  mind  to  it. 
But  there  won't  be  any  time  for  your  little  pictures 
and  statues.  You'll  have  to  deal  with  the  real  men, 
and  they'll  lose  their  glamour.  That's  the  thing 
about  business — ^it's  death  to  sentimentality." 

Camac  flushed  with  indignation.  * '  So  you  think 
Titian  and  Velasquez  and  Goyot  and  El  Greco  and 
Watteau  and  Van  Dyck  and  Rembrandt  and  all  the 
rest  were  sentimentalists,  do  you?  The  biggest  men 
in  the  world  worship  them.  You  aren't  just  to  the 
greatest  intellects.  I  suppose  Shakespeare  was  a 
sentimentalist ! ' ' 

The  old  man  laughed  and  tapped  his  son  on 
the  shoulder. 

** Don't  get  excited,  Camac.  I'd  rather  you  ran 
my  business  well,  than  be  Titian  or  Rembrandt, 
whoever  they  were.  If  you  do  this  job  well,  I'll 
think  there 's  a  good  chance  of  our  working  together. ' ' 


Carnac  as  Manager 6i 

Camaxj  nodded,  but  the  thought  that  he  could 
not  paint  or  sculp  when  he  was  on  this  work  vexed 
him,  and  he  only  set  his  teeth  to  see  it  through. 
**A11  right,  we'll  see,*'  he  said,  and  his  father 
went  away. 

Then  Carnac 's  time  of  work  and  trial  began.  He 
was  familiar  with  the  routine  of  the  business,  he 
had  adaptability,  he  was  a  quick  worker,  and  for 
a  fortnight  things  went  swimmingly.  There  was 
elation  in  doing  work  not  his  regular  job,  and  he 
knew  the  eyes  of  the  commercial  and  river  world 
were  on  him.  He  did  his  best  and  it  was  an  effective 
best.  Junia  had  been  in  the  City  of  Quebec,  but  she 
came  back  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  and  went  to 
his  office  to  get  a  subscription  for  a  local  charity. 
She  had  a  gift  in  this  kind  of  work. 

It  was  a  sunny  day  in  the  month  of  June,  and 
as  she  entered  the  office  a  new  spirit  seemed  to  enter 
with  her.  The  place  became  distinguished.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment,  radiant,  smiling, 
half  embarrassed,  then  she  said :  *  *  Please  may  I  for 
a  moment,  Carnac?" 

Camae  was  delighted.  **For  many  moments, 
Junia.  I'm  not  as  busy  as  usual.  I'm  glad  as  glad 
to  see  you. ' ' 


62 Carnac's  Folly 

She  said  with  restraint:  **Not  for  many  mo- 
ments. I*m  here  on  business.  It's  important.  I 
wanted  to  get  a  subscription  from  John  Grier  for 
the  Sailor's  Hospital  which  is  in  a  bad  way.  Will 
you  give  something  for  him?" 

Camac  looked  at  the  subscription  list.  **I  see 
you've  been  to  Belize  first  and  they've  given  a  hun- 
dred dollars.  Was  that  wise — going  to  them  first! 
You  know  how  my  father  feels  about  Belloc.  And 
we're  the  older  firm?" 

The  girl  laughed.  **0h,  that's  siUy!  Belloc 's 
money  is  as  good  as  John  Grier 's,  and  it  only  hap- 
pened he  was  asked  first  because  Fabian  was  present 
when  I  took  the  list,  and  it's  Fabian's  writing  on 
the  paper  there." 

Camac  nodded.  **  That's  all  right  with  me,  for 
I'm  no  foe  to  Belloc,  but  my  father  wouldn't  have 
liked  it.  He  wouldn't  have  given  anything  in 
the  circumstances." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  would!  He's  got  sense  with  all 
his  prejudices.  I'll  tell  you  what  he'd  have  done. 
He'd  have  given  a  bigger  subscription  than  Belloc." 

Carnac  laughed.  ''Well,  perhaps  you're  right; 
it  was  clever  planning  it  so." 

**I  didn't  plan  it.    It  was  accident,  but  I  had  to 


Carnac  as  Manager 63 

consider  everything  and  I  saw  how  to  turn  it  to 
account.  So,  if  you  are  going  to  give  a  subscription 
for  John  Grier  you  must  do  as  he  would  do." 

Carnac  smiled,  put  the  paper  on  his  desk,  and 
took  the  pen. 

**Make  it  measure  the  hate  John  Grier  has  to  the 
Belloc  firm,"  she  said  ironically. 

Carnac  chuckled  and  wrote.  **Will  that  do!" 
He  handed  her  the  paper. 

**One  hundred  and  fifty  dollars — oh,  quite, 
quite  good!"  she  said.  **But  it's  only  a  half  hatred 
after  all.    I'd  have  made  it  a  whole  one." 

''You'd  have  expected  John  Grier  to  give  two 
hundred,  eh?  But  that  would  have  been  too  plain. 
It  looks  all  right  now,  and  it's  got  to  go  at  that." 

She  smiled.  ''Well,  it'll  go  at  that.  You're  a 
good  business  man.  I  see  you've  given  up  your 
painting  and  sculping  to  do  this!  It  will  please 
your  father,  but  are  you  satisfied?" 

' '  Satisfied — of  course,  I  'm  not ;  and  you  know  it. 
I'm  not  a  money-grabber.  I'm  an  artist  if  I'm 
anything,  and  I'm  not  doing  this  permanently.  I'm 
only  helping  my  father  while  he's  in  a  hole." 

The  girl  suddenly  grew  serious.  "You  mean 
you're  not  going  to  stick  to  the  business,  and  take 


64 Carnac's  Folly 

Fabian's  place  in  it?  He's  been  for  a  week  with 
Belloc  and  he's  never  coming  back  here.  You  have 
the  brains  for  it;  and  you  could  make  your  father 
happy  and  inherit  his  fortune — all  of  it. ' ' 

Camac  flushed  indignantly.  *'I  suppose  I  could, 
but  it  isn't  big  enough  for  me.  I'd  rather  do  one 
picture  that  the  Luxembourg,  or  the  London  National 
Gallery  would  buy  than  own  this  whole  business. 
That's  the  turn  of  my  mind." 

*'Yes,  but  if  you  didn't  sell  a  picture  to  the 
Luxembourg  or  the  National  Gallery.    "What  then  t ' ' 

''I'd  have  a  good  try  for  it,  that's  all.  Do  you 
want  me  to  give  up  Art  and  take  to  conmierce? 
Is  that  your  view?" 

*'I  suggested  to  John  Grier  the  day  that  Fabian 
sold  his  share  that  you  might  take  his  place;  and 
I  still  think  it  a  good  thing,  tho',  of  course,  I  like 
your  painting.  But  I  felt  sorry  for  your  father  with 
none  of  his  own  family  to  help  him;  and  I  thought 
you  might  stay  with  him  for  your  family's  sake. " 

"You  thought  I'd  be  a  martyr  for  love  of  John 
Grier — and  cold  cash,  did  you?  That  isn't  the  way 
the  blo)od  runs  in  my  veins.  I  think  John  Grier 
might  get  out  of  the  business  now,  if  he's  tired, 
and  sell  it  and  let  some  one  else  run  it.    John  Grier 


Carnac  as  Manager  65 

is  not  in  want.  If  he  were,  I'd  give  up  everything 
to  help  him,  and  I'd  not  think  I  was  a  martyr.  But 
I've  a  right  to  make  my  own  career.  It's  making 
the  career  one  likes  which  gets  one  in  the  marrow. 
I'd  take  my  chances  of  success  as  he  did.  He  has 
enough  to  live  on,  he's  had  success ;  let  him  get  down 
and  out,  if  he 's  tired. ' ' 

The  girl  held  herself  firmly.  "Remember  John 
Grier  has  made  a  great  name  for  himself — as  great 
in  his  way  as  Andrew  Carnegie  or  Pierpont  Morgan 
— and  he's  got  pride  in  his  name.  He  wants  his  son 
to  carry  it  on,  and  in  a  way  he's  right." 

*' That's  good  argument,"  said  Carnac,  "but  if 
his  name  isn't  strong  enough  to  carry  itself,  his  son 
can't  carry  it  for  him.  That's  the  way  of  life.  How 
many  sons  have  ever  added  to  their  father's  fame? 
The  instances  are  very  few.  In  the  modern  world, 
I  can  only  think  of  the  Pitts  in  England.  There's 
no  one  else. ' ' 

The  girl  now  smiled  again.  The  best  part  in  her 
was  stirred.  She  saw.  Her  mind  changed.  After 
a  moment  she  said:  "I  think  you're  altogether 
right  about  it.  Carnac,  you  have  your  own  career 
to  make,  so  make  it  as  it  best  suits  yourself.  I'm 
sorry  I  spoke  to  your  father  as  I  did.  I  pitied  him, 
5 


66    Carnac's  Folly 

and  I  thought  you'd  find  scope  for  your  talents  in 
the  business.  It's  a  big  game,  but  I  see  now  it  isn't 
yours,  Carnac." 

He  nodded,  smiling.  ** That's  it;  that's  it,  I  hate 
the  whole  thing." 

She  shook  hands.  As  his  hand  enclosed  her  long 
slim  fingers,  he  felt  he  wished  never  to  let  them  go, 
they  were  so  thrilling;  but  he  did,  for  the  thought 
of  Luzanne  came  to  his  mind. 

''Good-bye,  Junia,  and  don't  forget  that  John 
Grier's  firm  is  the  foe  of  the  Belloc  business,"  he 
said  satirically. 

She  laughed,  and  went  down  the  hill  quickly, 
and  as  she  went  Camac  thought  he  had  never  seen 
so  graceful  a  figure. 

''What  an  evil  Fate  sent  Luzanne  my  way!" 
he  said. 

Two  days  later  there  came  an  ugly  incident  on 
the  river.  Tnere  was  a  collision  between  a  gang 
of  John  Grier's  and  Belloc 's  men  and  one  of  Grier's 
men  was  killed.  At  the  inquest,  it  was  found  that 
the  man  met  his  death  by  his  own  fault,  having  first 
attacked  a  Belloc  man  and  injured  him.  The  Belloc 
man  showed  the  injury  to  the  jury,  and  he  w^as 
acquitted.     Camac  watched  the  case  closely,  and 


Carnac  as  Manager  67 

instructed  his  lawyer  to  contend  that  the  general 
attack  was  first  made  by  Belloc's  men,  which  was 
true;  but  the  jury  decided  that  this  did  not  affect 
the  individual  case,  and  that  the  John  Grier  man  met 
his  death  by  his  own  fault. 

'*A  shocking  verdict!"  he  said  aloud  in  the  Court 
when  it  was  given, 

"Sir,"  said  the  Coroner,  *'it  is  the  verdict  of 
men  who  use  their  judgement  after  hearing  the 
evidence,  and  your  remark  is  offensive  and  criminal. ' ' 

''If  it  is  criminal,  I  apologize,"  said  Carnac. 

"You  must  apologize  for  its  offensiveness,  or  I 
will  have  you  arrested,  sir." 

This  nettled  Carnac.  "I  will  not  apologize  for 
its  offensiveness,"  he  said  firmly. 

"Constable,  arrest  this  man,"  said  the  Coroner, 
and  the  constable  did  so. 

"May  I  be  released  on  bail?"  asked  Carnac  with 
a  smile. 

"I  am  a  magistrate.  Yes,  you  may  be  released 
on  bail, ' '  said  the  Coroner. 

Carnac  bowed,  and  at  once  a  neighbour  became 
security  for  three  thousand  dollars.  Then  Carnac 
bowed  again  and  left  the  Court  with — it  was  plain 
— the  goodwill  of  most  people  present. 


68 Carnac's  Folly 

Carnac  returned  to  his  office  "with,  angry  feelings 
at  his  heart.  The  Belloc  man  ought  to  have  been 
arrested  for  manslaughter,  he  thought.  In  any  case, 
he  had  upheld  the  honour  of  John.  Grier's  firm  by 
his  protest,  and  the  newspapers  spoke  not  unfavor- 
ably of  him  in  their  reports.  They  said  he  was  a 
man  of  courage  to  say  what  he  did,  though  it  was 
improper,  from  a  legal  standpoint.  But  human 
nature  was  human  nature  I 

The  trial  took  place  in  five  days,  and  Carnac  was 
fined  twenty-five  cents,  which  was  in  effect  a  verdict 
of  not  guilty;  and  so,  the  newspapers  said.  It  was 
decided  that  the  offence  was  only  legally  improper, 
and  it  was  natural  that  Carnac  expressed  himself 
strongly. 

Junia  was  present  at  the  trial.  After  it  was  over, 
she  saw  Carnac  for  a  moment.  **I  think  your  firm 
can  just  pay  the  price  and  exist!"  she  said.  **It^s 
a  terrible  sum,  and  it  shows  how  great  a  criminal 
you  are!" 

**Not  a  Hhirty-cent'  criminal  anyhow,"  said 
Carnac.  "It  is  a  moral  victory,  and  tell  Fabian  so. 
He's  a  bit  huffy  because  I  got  into,  the  trouble, 
I  suppose." 

**No,  he  loathed  it  all.    He's  sorry  it  occurred." 


Carnac  as  Manager 69 

There  was  no  further  talk  between  them,  for  a 
subordinate  of  Carnac 's  came  hurriedly  to  him  and 
said  something  which  Junia  did  not  hear.  Carnac 
raised  his  hat  to  her,  and  hurried  away. 

**Well,  it's  not  so  easy  as  painting  pictures," 
she  said.     "He  gets  fussed  over  these  things." 

It  was  later  announced  by  the  manager  of  the 
main  mill  that  there  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  workers 
to  agitate  for  a  strike  for  higher  pay.  A  French- 
Canadian  who  had  worked  in  the  mills  of  Maine 
and  who  was  a  red-hot  socialist  was  the  cause  of 
it.  He  had  only  been  in  the  mills  for  about  three 
months  and  had  spent  his  spare  time  inciting  well- 
satisfied  workmen  to  strike.  His  name  was  Luc 
Baste — a  shock-haired  criminal  with  a  huge  chest 
and  a  big  voice,  and  a  born  filibuster.  The  meeting 
was  held  and  a  deputation  was  appointed  to  wait  on 
Carnac  at  his  office.  Word  was  sent  to  Carnac,  and 
he  said  he  would  see  them  after  the  work  was  done 
for  the  day.  So  in  the  evening  about  seven  o'clock 
the  deputation  of  six  men  came,  headed  by  Luc  Baste. 

**Well,  what  is  it?"  Carnac  asked  calmly. 

Luc  Baste  began,  not  a  statement  of  facts,  but 
an  oration  on  the  rights  of  workers,  their  down- 
trodden condition  and  their  beggarly  wages.    He 


72 Carnac's  Folly  

said  they  had  not  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  and  that  right  well  did  their  employers 
know  it.  He  said  there  should  be  an  increase  of  a 
half-dollar  a  day,  or  there  would  be  a  strike. 

Carnac  dealt  with  the  matter  quickly  and  quietly. 
He  said  Luc  Baste  had  not  been  among  them  a  long 
time  and  evidently  did  not  know  what  was  the  cost 
of  living  in  Montreal.  He  said  the  men  got  good 
wages,  and  in  any  case  it  was  not  for  him  to  settle 
a  thing  of  such  importance.  This  was  for  the  head 
of  the  firm,  .John  Grier,  when  he  returned.  The 
wages  had  been  raised  two  years  before,  and  he 
doubted  that  John  Grier  would  consent  to  a  further 
rise.  All  other  men  on  the  river  seemed  satisfied 
and  he  doubted  these  ought  to  have  a  cent  more  a  day. 
They  were  getting  the  full  value  of  the  work.  He 
begged  all  present  to  think  twice  before  they  brought 
about  catastrophe.  It  wlould  be  a  catastrophe  if 
John  Grier 's  mills  should  stop  working  and  Belloc's 
mills  should  go  on  as  before.  It  was  not  like  Grier 's 
men  to  do  this  sort  of  thing. 

The  men  seemed  impressed,  and,  presently,  after 
one  of  them  thanking  him,  the  deputation  withdrew, 
Luc  Baste  talking  excitedly  as  they  went.  The  man- 
ager of  the  main  mill,  with  grave  face,  said : 


Carnac  as  Manager 7£ 

"No,  Mr.  Grier,  I  don't  tMiik:  they'll  be  satisfied. 
You  said  all  that  could  be  said,  but  I  think  they'll 
strike  after  all." 

''Well,  I  hope  it  won't  occur  before  John  Grier 
gets  back,"  said  Carnac. 

That  night  a  strike  was  declared. 

Fortunately,  only  about  two-thirds  of  the  men 
came  out,  and  it  could  not  be  called  a  complete 
success.  The  Belloc  people  were  delighted,  but  they 
lived  in  daily  fear  of  a  strike  in  their  own  yards, 
for  agitators  were  busy  amongst  their  workmen. 
But  the  workers  waited  to  see  what  would  happen 
to  Grier 's  men. 

Carnac  declined  to  reconsider.  The  wages  were 
sufficient  and  the  strike  unwarranted!  He  kept 
cool,  even  good-natured,  and  with  only  one-third  of 
his  men  at  work,  he  kept  things  going,  and  the 
business  went  on  with  regularity,  if  with  smaller 
output.  The  Press  unanimously  supported  him,  for 
it  was  felt  the  strike  had  its  origin  in  foreign  influ- 
ence, and  as  French  Canada  had  no  love  for  the 
United  States  there  was  journalistic  opposition  to 
the  strike.  Carnac  had  telegraphed  to  his  father 
when  the  strike  started,  but  did  not  urge  him  to  come 
back.    He  knew  that  Grier  could  do  nothing  more 


72 Carnac's  Folly 

than  he  himself  was  doing,  and  he  dreaded  new  in- 
fluence over  the  strikers.  Grier  happened  to  be  in 
the  backwoods  and  did  not  get  word  for  nearly  a 
a  week ;  then  he  wired  asking  Carnac  what  the  present 
situation  was.  Carnac  replied  he  was  standng  firm, 
that  he  would  not  yield  a  cent  increase  in  wages,  and 
that,  so  far,  all  was  quiet. 

It  happened,  however,  that  on  the  day  he  wired, 
the  strikers  tried  to  prevent  the  non-strikers  from 
going  to  work  and  there  was  a  collision.  The  police 
and  a  local  company  of  volunteers  intervened  and 
then  the  Press  condemned  unsparingly  the  whole 
affair.  This  outbreak  did  good,  and  Luc  Baste  was 
arrested  for  provoking  disorder.  No  one  else  was 
arrested,  and  this  was  a  good  thing,  for,  on  the 
whole,  even  the  men  that  followed  Luc  did  not  trust 
him.  His  arrest  cleared  the  air  and  the  strike  broke. 
The  next  day,  all  the  strikers  returned,  but  Carnac 
refused  their  wages  for  the  time  they  were  on  strike, 
and  he  had  triumphed. 

On  that  very  day  John  Grrier  started  back  to 
Montreal.  He  arrived  in  about  four  days,  and  when 
he  came,  found  everything  in  order.  He  went 
straight  from  his  home  to  the  mill  and  there  found 
Carnac  in  control. 


Carnac  as  Manager  73 

''Had  trouble,  eh,  Camac?"  he  asked  with  a  grin, 
after  a  moment  of  greeting.  Camac  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 

"It's  the  first  strike  I  eVer  had  in  my  mills,  and 
I  hope  it  will  be  the  last.  I  don 't  believe  in  knuckling 
down  to  labour  tyranny,  and  I  'm  glad  you  kept  your 
hand  steady.  There'll  be  no  more  strikes  in  my 
mills— I'll  see  to  that!" 

"They've  only  just  begun,  and  they'll  go  on, 
father.  It's  the  influence  of  Cannes  who  have  gone 
to  the  factories  of  Maine.  They  get  bitten  there  with 
the  socialistic  craze,  and  they  come  back  and  make 
trouble.  This  strike  was  started  by  Luc  Baste,  a 
French-Canadian,  who  had  been  in  Maine.  You 
can't  stop  these  things  by  saying  so.  There  was  no 
strike  among  Belloc's  men!" 

"No,  but  did  you  have  no  trouble  with  Belloc's 
men?" 

Camac  told  him  of  the  death  of  the  Grier  man 
after  the  collision,  of  his  own  arrest  and  fine  of 
twenty-five  cents  and  of  the  attitude  of  the  public 
and  the  Press. 

The  old  man  was  jubilant.  "Say,  you  did  the 
thing  in  style.  It  was  the  only  way  to  do  it.  You 
landed  'em  with  the  protest  fair  and  easy.    You're 


74  Carnac's  Folly 


going  to  be  a  success  in  the  business,  I  can  see  that." 

Camac  for  a  moment  looked  at  his  father  medi- 
tatively. Then,  seeing  the  surprise  in  John  Grier's 
face,  he  said:  *'No,  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  success 
in  it,  for  I'm  not  going  on  with  it.  I've  had  enough. 
I'm  through." 

'  'You've  had  enough — you're  through — ^just  when 
you've  proved  you  can  do  things  as  well  as  I  can 
do  them !   You  ain 't  going  on  I    Great  Jehoshaphat ! '  * 

*'I  mean  it;  I'm  not  going  on.  I'm  going  to  quit 
in  another  month.  I  can't  stick  it.  It  galls  me.  It 
ain't  my  job.  I  do  it,  but  it's  artificial,  it  ain't  the 
real  thing.  My  heart  isn't  in  it  as  yours  is,  and 
I'd  go  mad  if  I  had  to  do  this  all  my  life.  It's  full 
of  excitement  at  times,  it's  hard  work,  it's  stimulat- 
ing when  you're  fighting,  but  other  times  it's  deadly 
dull  and  bores  me  stiff.  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
pulling  a  train  of  cars." 

Slowly  the  old  man's  face  reddened  with  anger. 
**It  bores  you  stiff,  eh?  It's  deadly  dull  at  times! 
There's  only  interest  in  it  when  there's  a  fight  on, 
eh?  You're  right;  you're  not  fit  for  the  job,  never 
was  and  never;  will  be  while  your  mind  is  what  it 
is.    Don't  take  a  month  to  go,  don't  take  a  week,  or 


Carnac  as  Manager 75 

a  day,  go  this  morning  after  IVe  go^  your  report 
on  what's  been  done.  It  ain't  the  real  thing,  eh? 
No,  it  ain't.  It's  no  place  for  you.  TeU  me  ali 
there  is  to  tell,  and  get  out;  I've  had  enough  too, 
I  Ve  had  my  fill.    *  It  bores  me  stiff ' ! " 

John  Grier  was  in  a  rage,  and  he  would  listen  to 
no  explanation.  *  *  Come  now,  out  with  your  report ! ' ' 

Carnac  was  not  upset.  He  kept  cool.  ' '  No  need 
to  be  so  crusty,"  he  said. 


Chapter  VI  Luke  Tarboe  has  an  Offer 

MANY  a  man  behind  his  horses'  tails  on  the 
country-side  has  watched  the  wild  reckless 
life  of  the  water  with  wonder  and  admiration.  He 
sees  a  cluster  of  logs  gather  and  climb,  and  still 
gather  and  climb,  and  between  him  and  that  cluster 
is  a  rolling  waste  of  timber,  round  and  square. 

Suddenly,  a  being  with  a  red  shirt,  with  loose 
prairie  kind  of  hat,  knee-boots,  having  metal  clamps, 
strikes  out  from  the  shore,  running  on  the  tops  of 
the  moving  logs  till  he  reaches  the  jam.  Then  the 
pike-pole,  or  the  lever,  reaches  the  heart  of  the  diffi- 
culty, and  presently  the  jam  breaks,  and  the  logs 
go  tumbling  into  the  main,  while  the  vicious-looking 
berserker  of  the  water  runs  back  to  the  shore  over 
the  logs,  safe  and  sound.  It  is  a  marvel  to  the  spec- 
tator, that  men  should  manipulate  the  river  so.  To 
him  it  is  a  life  apart;  not  belonging  to  the  life  he 
lives — a  passing  show. 

It  was  a  stark  surprise  of  the  river  which  makes 
this  story  possible.  There  was  a  strike  at  Bunder 's 
Boom — as  it  was  called — between  Bunder  and  Grier 's 
men.    Some  foreman  of  Grier 's  gang  had  been  need- 

76 


Luke  Tarboe  has  an  Offer yy 

lessly  offensive.  Bunder  had  been  stupidly  resent- 
ful. When  Grier's  men  had  tried  to  force  his  hand 
also,  he  had  resisted.  It  chanced  that,  when  an 
impasse  seemed  possible  to  be  broken  only  by  force, 
a  telegram  came  to  John  Grier  at  Montreal  telling 
him  of  the  difficulty.  He  lost  no  time  in  making  his 
way  northwards. 

But  some  one  else  had  come  upon  the  scene. 
It  was  Luke  Tarboe.  He  had  arrived  at  a  moment 
when  the  Belloc  river  crowd  had  almost  wrecked 
Bunder's  Boom,  and  when  the  collision  between  the 
two  gangs  seemed  inevitable.  What  he  did  remained 
a  river  legend.  By  good  temper  and  adroitness,  he 
reconciled  the  leaders  of  the  two  gangs ;  he  bought 
the  freedom  of  the  river  by  a  present  to  Bunder's 
daughter ;  he  won  Bunder  by  four  bottles  of  * '  Three 
Star"  brandy.  When  the  police  from  a  town  a 
hundred  miles  away  arrived  at  the  same  time  as 
John  Grier,  it  was  to  find  the  Grier  and  Belloc  gangs 
peacefully  prodding  side  by  side. 

When  the  police  had  gone,  John  Grier  looked 
Tarboe  up  and  down.  The  brown  face,  the  clear, 
strong  brown  eyes  and  the  brown  hatless  head  rose 
up  eighteen  inches  above  his  own,  making  a  gallant 
summit  to  a  robust  stalk. 


yS Garnac's  Folly 

"Well,  youVe  done  easier  things  than  that  in 
your  time,  eh?'*  John  Grier  asked. 

Tarboe  nodded.  **It  was  touch  and  go.  I  guess 
it  was  the  hardest  thing  I  ever  tried  since  I  Ve  been 
working  for  you,  but  it's  come  off  all  right,  hasn't 
it ! "  Ho  waved  a  hand  to  the  workmen  on  the  river, 
to  the  tumbling  rushes  of  logs  and  timber.  Then  he 
looked  far  up  the  stream,  with  hand  shading  his 
brown  eyes  to  where  a  crib — or  raft — ^was  following 
the  eager  stream  of  logs.  **It's  easy  going  now," 
he  added,  and  his  face  had  a  look  of  pleasure. 

** What's  your  position,  and  what's  your  name?" 
asked  John  Grier. 

**I'm  head-foreman  of  the  Skunk  Nest's  gang — 
that's  this  lot,  and  I  got  here — ^just  in  time  I  I  don't 
believe  you  could  have  done  it,  Mr.  Grier.  No  mas- 
ter is  popular  in  the  real  sense  with  his  men.  I 
think  they'd  have  turned  you  down.  So  it  was 
lucky  I  came." 

A  faint  smile  hovered  at  his  lips,  and  his  eyes 
brooded  upon  the  busy  gangs  of  men.  **Yes  I've 
had  a  lot  of  luck  this  time.  There's  nothing  like 
keeping  your  head  cool  and  your  belly  free  from 
drink."  Now  he  laughed  broadly.  "By  gosh,  it's 
all  good !    Do  you  know,  Mr.  Grier,  I  came  out  here 


Luke  Tarboe  has  an  Offer 79 

a  wreck  eight  years  ago.  1  left  Montreal  then  with 
a  spot  in  my  Inngs,  that  would  kill  me,  they  said, 
I've  never  seen  Montreal  since,  but  I've  had  a  good 
time  out  in  the  woods,  in  the  shanties  in  the  winters ; 
on  the  rivers  in  the  summer.  I've  only  been  as  far 
East  as  this  in  eight  years." 

"What  do  you  do  in  the  winter,  then?" 

*' Shanties — shanties  all  the  time.  In  the  sum- 
mer this;  in  the  Fall  taking  the  men  back  to  the 
shanties.  Bossing  the  lot;  doing  it  from  love  of  the 
life  that's  been  given  back  to  me.  Yes,  this  is  the 
life  that  makes  you  take  things  easy.  You  don't 
get  fussed  out  here„  The  job  I  had  took  a  bit  of 
doing,  but  it  was  done,  and  I'm  lucky  to  have  my 
boss  see  the  end  of  it" 

He  smiled  benignly  upon  John  Grier.  He  knew 
he  was  valuable  to  the  Grier  organization:  he  knew 
that  Grier  had  heard  of  him  under  another  name. 
Now  Grier  had  seen  him,  and  he  felt  he  would  like 
to  tell  John  Grier  some  things  about  the  river  he 
ought  to  know.  He  waved  a  hand  declining  the 
icigar  offered  him  by  his  great  chief. 

** Thanks,  I  don't  smoke,  and  I  don't  drink,  and 
I  don't  chew;  but  I  eat — ^by  gosh,  I  eat!  Nothing's, 
so  good  as  good  food,  except  good  reading. ' ' 


8o Carnac's  Folly 

*  *  Good  reading  I ' '  exclaimed  John  Grier.  *  *  Good 
reading — on  the  river  1 '  * 

**Well,  it's  worked  all  right,  and  I  read  a  lot. 
I  get  books  from  Montreal,  from  the  old  library  at 
the  University.'* 

*  *  -At  what  University, ' '  stmck  in  the  lumber-king. 

*  •  Oh,  Laval  I  I  wouldn't  go  to  McGill.  I  wanted 
to  know  French,  so  I  went  to  Laval.  There  I  came 
to  know  Father  Labasse.  He  was  a  great  man, 
Father  Labasse.  He  helped  me.  I  was  there  three 
years,  and  then  was  told  I  was  going  to  die.  It  was 
Labasse  who  gave  me  this  tip.  He  said,  *Go  into 
the  woods;  put  your  teeth  into  the  trees;  eat  the 
wild  herbs,  and  don't  come  back  till  you  feel  well.' 
Well,  I  haven't  gone  back,  and  I'm  not  going  back." 

*'What  do  you  do  with  your  wages?"  asked  the 
lumber-king. 

**I  bought  land.  I've  got  a  farm  of  four  hun- 
dred acres  twenty  miles  from  here.  I've  got  a  man 
on  it  working  it ' ' 

"Does  it  pay?" 

"Of  course.  Do  yon  suppose  I'd  keep  a  farm 
that  didn't  pay?" 

"Wbo  runs  it?" 

**A  man  that  broke  his  leg  on  the  river.    One 


Luke  Tarboe  has  an  Offer 8^ 

of  Belloc's  men.  He  knows  all  about  fanning.  He 
brought  his  wife  and  three  children  up,  and  there 
he  is — ^making  money,  and  making  the  land  good. 
I've  made  him  a  partner  at  last.  When  it's  good 
enough  by  and  by,  I'll  probably  go  and  live  there 
myself.  Anybody  ought  to  make  farming  a  success, 
if  there's  water  and  proper  wood  and  such  things," 
he  added. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
John  Grier  looked  Tarboe  up  and  down  sharply 
again,  noting  the  splendid  physique,  the  quizzical, 
mirth-provoking  eye  and  said:  "I  can  give  you  a 
better  job  if  you'll  come  to  Montreal." 

Tarboe  shook  his  head.  ** Haven't  had  a  sick 
day  for  eight  years;  I'm  as  hard  as  nails;  I'm  as 
strong  as  steel.  I  love  this  wild  world  of  the  woods 
and  fields  and " 

**And  the  shebangs  and  grog-shops  and  the  dirty, 
drunken  villages?"  interrupted  the  old  man. 

"No,  they  don't  count.  I  take  them  in,  but  they 
don't  count." 

** Didn't  you  have  hard  times  when  you  first 
came  1 ' '  asked  John  Grier.  *  *  Did  you  get  right  with 
the  men  from  the  start?" 

"A  little  bit  of  care  is  a  good  thing  in  any  life 


82  Carnac's  Folly 


I  told  them  good  stories,  and  they  liked  that.  I  used 
to  make  the  stories  up,  and  they  liked  that  also. 
When  I  added  some  swear  words  they  liked  them  all 
the  better.    I  learned  how  to  do  it.'' 

**Yes,  I've  heard  of  you,  but  not  as  Tarboe." 

"You  heard  of  me  as  Renton,  eh?" 

"Yes,  as  Renton.  I  wonder  I  never  came  across 
you  till  to-day. ' ' 

*'I  kept  out  of  your  way;  that  was  the  reason. 
When  you  came  north,  I  got  farther  into  the 
backwoods." 

"Are  you  absolutely  straight,  Tarboe?"  asked 
John  Grier  eagerly.  "Do  you  do  these  things  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden  way,  or  can  you  run  a  bit  crooked 
when  it's  worth  while?" 

"If  I'd  ever  seen  it  worth  while,  I'd  say  so. 
I  CQuld  run  a  bit  crooked  if  I  was  fighting  among 
the  big  ones,  or  if  we  were  at  war  with  — Belloc, 
eh!"  A  cloud  came  into  the  eyes  of  Tarboe.  "If 
I  was  fighting  Belloc,  and  he  used  a  weapon  to  flay 
me  from  behind,  I'd  never  turn  my  back  on  him!" 

A  grim  smile  came  into  Tarboe 's  face.  His  jaw 
set  almost  viciously,  his  eyes  hardened.  "You  peo- 
ple don't  play  your  game  very  well,  Mr.  Grier.  I've 
seen  a  lot  that  wants  changing. ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  change  it,  then!" 


Luke  Tarboe  has  an  Offer 83 

Tarboe  laughed.  *'If  I  was  boss  like  you,  I'd 
change  it,  but  I'm  not,  and  I  stick  to  my  own  job." 

The  old  man  came  close  to  him,  and  steadily 
explored  his  face  and  eyes.  **I've  never  met  any- 
body like  you  before.  You're  the  man  can  do  things 
and  won't  do  them." 

"I  didn't  say  that.  I  said  what  I  meant — that 
good  health  is  better  than  everything  else  in  the 
world,  and  when  you've  got  it,  you  should  keep  it, 
if  you  can.    I'm  going  to  keep  mine." 

**Well,  keep  it  in  Montreal,"  said  John  Grier. 
"There's  a  lot  doing  there  worth  while.  Is  fighting 
worth  anything  to  one  that's  got  aught  in  him? 
There's  war  for  the  big  things.  I  believe  in  war." 
He  waved  a  hand.  * 'What's  the  difference  between 
the  kind  of  thing  you've  done  to-day,  and  doing  it 
with  the  Belloc  gang — ^with  the  Folson  gang — ^with 
the  Longville  gang — and  all  the  rest?  It's  the  same 
thing,  I  was  like  you  when  I  was  young.  I  could 
do  things  you've  done  to-day  while  I  laid  the  base 
of  what  I've  got.    How  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  thirty — almost  thirty-one." 

"You'll  be  just  as  well  in  Montreal  to-morrow 
as  you  are  here  to-day,  and  you'd  be  twice  as  clever, ' ' 
said  John  Grier.  His  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  those 
of  the  younger  man.    "I  like  you,"  he  continued, 


84 Carnac's  Folly 

suddenly  catching  Tarboe  's  arm.  ' '  You  're  all  right, 
and  you  wouldn't  run  straight  simply  because  it 
was  the  straight  thing  to  do. ' ' 

Tarboe  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  and 
nodded.  The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled.  *'By  gra- 
cious, we  're  well  met  I  I  never  was  in  a  bigger  hole 
in  my  life.  One  of  my  sons  has  left  me.  I  bought 
him  out,  and  he's  joined  my  enemy  Belloc." 

**Yes,  I  know,"  remarked  Tarboe. 

**My  other  son,  he's  no  good.  He's  as  strong  as 
a  horse — but  he's  no  good.  He  paints,  he  sculps. 
He  doesn't  care  whether  I  give  him  money  or  not. 
He  earns  his  living  as  he  wants  to  earn  it.  When 
Fabian  left  me,  I  tried  Carnac.  I  offered  to  take 
him  in  permanently.  He  tried  it,  but  he  wouldn't 
go  on.  He  got  out.  He's  twenty-six.  The  papers 
are  beginning  to  talk  about  him.  He  doesn't  care 
for  that,  except  that  it  brings  in  cash  for  his  statues 
and  pictures.  What's  the  good  of  painting  and 
statuary,  if  you  can't  do  the  big  things?" 

"So  you  think  the  things  you  do  are  as  big  as 
the  things  that  Shakespeare,  or  Tennyson,  or  Titian, 
of  Van  Dyck,  or  Watt,  or  Eodin  do — or  did?" 

"Bigger — ^much  bigger,"  was  the  reply. 

The  younger  man  smiled.    "Well,  that's  the  way 


Luke  Tarboe  has  an  Offer 85 

to  look  at  it,  I  suppose.  Think  the  thing  you  do  is 
better  than  what  anybody  else  does,  and  you're 
well  started." 

''Come  and  do  it  too.  You're  the  only  man  I've 
cottoned  to  in  years.  Come  with  me,  and  I'll  give 
you  twelve  thousand  dollars  a  year;  and  I'll  take 
you  into  my  business.  I'll  give  you  the  best  chance 
you  ever  had.  You've  found  your  health;  come 
back  and  keep  it.  Don't  you  long  for  the  fight,  for 
your  finger  at  somebody's  neck?  That's  what  I  felt 
when  I  was  your  age,  and  I  did  it,  and  I'm  doing 
it,  but  I  can't  do  it  as  I  used  to.  My  veins  are 
leaking  somewhere."  A  strange,  sad,  faded  look 
came  into  his  eyes.  **I  don't  want  my  business  to 
be  broken  by  BeUoc,"  he  added.  ''Come  and  kelp 
me  save  it. ' ' 

*'By  gosh,  I  will!"  said  the  young  man  after 
a  moment,  with  a  sudden  thirst  in  his  throat  and 
bite  to  his  teeth.    "By  gum,  yes,  I'll  go  with  you." 


Chapter  VII "At  our  Price?" 

WEST  of  the  city  of  Montreal  were  the  works 
and  the  ofl&ces  of  John  Grier.  Here  it  was 
that  a  thing  was  done  without  which  there  might 
have  been  no  real  story  to  tell.  It  was  a  night  which 
marked  the  close  of  the  financial  year  of  the  firm. 

Upon  John  Grier  had  come  Carnac.  He  had 
brought  with  him  a  small  statue  of  a  riverman  with 
flannel  shirty  scarf  about  the  waist,  thick  defiant 
trousers  and  well-weaponed  boots.  It  was  a  real 
figure  of  the  river,  buoyant,  daring,  almost  vicious. 
The  head  was  bare;  there  were  plain  gold  rings  in 
the  ears ;  and  the  stark,  half -malevolent  eyes  looked 
out,  as  though  searching  for  a  jam  of  logs  or  some 
peril  of  the  river.  In  the  horny  right  hand  was  a  de- 
fiant pike-pole,  its  handle  thrust  forward,  its  steel 
spike  stabbing  the  ground. 

At  first  glance,  Garnac  saw  that  John  Grier  was 
getting  worn  and  old.  The  eyes  were  not  so  flash- 
ing as  they  once  were;  the  lips  were  curled  in  a 
half-cynical  mood.  The  old  look  of  activity  was 
fading;  something  vital  had  struck  soul  and  body. 
He  had  had  a  great  year.    He  had  fought  Belloc  and 

86 


'At  our  Price?"  87 


his  son  Fabian  successfully;  he  had  laid  new  plans 
and  strengthened  his  position. 

Tarboe  coming  into  the  business  had  made  all 
the  difference  to  him.  Tarboe  had  imagination, 
skill  and  decision,  he  seldom  lost  his  temper;  he 
kept  a  strong  hand  upon  himself.  His  control  of 
men  was  marvellous ;  his  knowledge  of  finance  was 
instinctive;  his  capacity  for  organization  was  rare, 
and  he  had  health  unbounded  and  serene.  It  was 
hard  to  tell  what  were  the  principles  controlling 
Tarboe — there  was  always  an  element  of  suspicion 
in  his  brown  and  brilliant  eyes.  Yet  he  loved  work. 
The  wind  of  energy  seemed  to  blow  through  his  care- 
less hair.  His  hands  were  like  iron  and  steel ;  his  lips 
were  quick  and  friendly,  or  ruthless,  as  seemed 
needed.  To  John  Grier  's  eyes  he  was  the  epitome  of 
civilization — the  warrior  without  a  soul. 

When  Carnac  came  in  now  with  the  statue  tucked 
under  his  arm,  smiling  and  self-contained,  it  seemed 
as  though  something  had  been  done  by  Fate  to  flaunt 
John  Grier. 

With  a  nod,  Carnac  put  the  statue  on  the  table 
in  front  of  the  old  man,  and  said:  ''It's  all  right, 
isn't  it?  I've  lifted  that  out  of  the  river-life. 
That's  one  of  the  best  men  you  ever  had,  and  he's 


88 Carnac's  Folly 

only  one  of  a  thousand.  He  doesn't  belong  any- 
where. He's  a  rover,  an  adventurer,  a  wanton  of 
the  waters.  Look  at  him.  He 's  all  right,  isn ' t  he  ? " 
He  asked  this  again. 

The  timber-man  waved  the  statue  aside,  and 
looked  at  the  youth  with  critical  eyes.  ''I've  just 
been  making  up  the  accounts  for  the  year, ' '  he  said. 
**It's  been  the  best  year  I've  had  in  seven.  I've 
taken  the  starch  out  of  Belloc  and  Fabian.  I've 
broken  the  back  of  their  opposition — I  've  got  it  like 
a  twig  in  iron  teeth." 

**Yes,  Tarboe's  been  some  use,  hasn't  he!"  was 
the  suggestive  response. 

John  Grier's  eyes  hardened.  ^^You  might  have 
done  it.  You  had  it  in  you.  The  staff  of  life — 
courage  and  daring —  were  yours,  and  you  wouldn  't 
take  it  on.  What's  the  result?  I've  got  a  man 
who's  worth  two  of  Fabian  and  Belloc.  And  you" 
— ^he  held  up  a  piece  of  paper — * '  see  that, ' '  he  broke 
off.  ''See  that.  It's  my  record.  That's  what  I'm 
worth.  That's  what  you  might  have  handled!" 
He  took  a  cigar  from  his  pocket,  cut  off  the  blunt 
end,  and  continued:  "You  threw  your  chance 
aside."  He  tapped  the  paper  with  the  i)oint  of  the 
cigar.  "That's  what  Tarboe has  helped  to  do.  What 


'At  our  Price?''  89 


have  you  got  to  show? ' '  He  pointed  to  the  statue.  '  *  I 
won't  say  it  ain't  good.  It's  a  live  man  from  the 
river.  But  what  do  I  want  with  that,  when  I  can 
have  the  original  mau  himself!  My  boy,  the  great 
game  of  life  is  to  fight  hard,  and  never  to  give  in. 
If  you  keep  your  eyes  open,  things '11  happen  that'll 
bring  what  you  want." 

He  stood  up,  striking  a  match  to  light  his  cigar. 
It  was  dusk,  and  the  light  of  the  match  gave  a  curious, 
fantastic  glimmer  to  his  powerful,  weird,  haggard 
face.  He  was  like  some  remnant  of  a  great  life, 
loose  in  a  careless  world. 

'*I  tell  you,"  he  said,  the  smoke  leaking  from 
his  mouth  like  a  drift  of  snow,  * '  the  only  thing  worth 
doing  is  making  the  things  that  matter  in  the  com- 
merce and  politics  of  the  world." 

**I  didn't  know  you  were  a  politician,"  said 
Camac. 

'*0f  course  I'm  a  politician,"  was  the  inflam- 
mable reply.  ''What's  commerce  without  politics? 
It's  politics  that  makes  the  commerce  possible. 
There's  that  fellow  Barouche — Barode  Barouche — 
he's  got  no  money,  but  he's  a  Minister,  and  he  can 
make  you  rich  or  poor  by  planning  legislation  at 
Ottawa  that'll  benefit  or  hamper  you.    That's  the 


92 Carnac's  Folly 


kind  of  business  that's  worth  doing — seeing  into  the 
future,  fashioning  laws  that  make  good  men  happy 
and  bad  men  afraid.  Don't  I  know !  I'm  a  master- 
man  in  my  business ;  nothing  defeats  me.  To  me,  a 
forest  of  wild  wood  is  the  future  palace  of  a  Prime 
Minister.  A  great  river  is  a  pathway  to  the  palace, 
and  all  the  thousands  of  men  that  work  the  river  are 

the  adventurers  that  bring  the  booty  home " 

"That  bring  'the  palace  to  Paris,'  eh!"  inter- 
rupted Carnac,  laughing. 

''Paris  be  damned — that  bring  the  forest  to 
Quebec.  How  long  did  it  take  you  to  make  that?" 
he  added  with  a  nod  towards  the  statue. 

"Oh,  I  did  it  in  a  day — six  hours,  I  think;  and 
he  stood  like  that  for  three  hours  out  of  the  six. 
He  was  great,  but  he  'd  no  more  sense  of  civilization 
than  I  have  of  Heaven." 

"You  don't  need  to  have  a  sense  of  Heaven, 
you  need  to  have  a  sense  of  Hell.  That  prevents  you 
from  spoiling  your  own  show.  You're  playing  with 
life's  vital  things." 

"I  wonder  how  much  you've  got  out  of  it  all, 
father,"  Carnac  remarked  with  a  smile.  He  lit  a 
cigarette.  "You  do  your  job  in  style.  It's  been 
a  great  career,  yours.  You've  made  your  big  busi- 
ness out  of  nothing. ' ' 


'At  our  Price?" 91 


'*I  had  something  to  start  with.  Your  grand- 
father had  a  business  worth  not  much,  but  it  was 
a  business,  and  the  fundamental  thing  is  to  have 
machinery  to  work  with  when  you  start  life.  I  had 
that.  My  father  was  narrow,  contracted  and  a 
blunderer,  but  he  made  good  in  a  small  way." 

**And  you  in  a  big  way,"  said  Carnac,  with 
admiration  and  criticism  in  his  eyes. 

He  realized  that  John  Grier  had  summed  him 
up  fairly  when  he  said  he  was  playing  with  life's 
vital  things.  Somehow,  he  saw  the  other  had  a 
grip  upon  essentials  lacking  in  himself;  he  had 
his  tooth  in  the  orange,  as  it  were,  and  was  sucking 
the  juice  of  good  profit  from  his  labours.  Yet  he 
knew  how  much  trickery  and  vital  evasion  and  harsh 
aggression  there  were  in  his  father's  business  life. 

As  yet  he  had  never  seen  Tarboe — he  had  been 
away  in  the  country  the  whole  year  nearly — ^but 
he  imagined  a  man  of  strength,  abilities,  penetra- 
tion and  deep  power.  He  knew  that  only  a  man  with 
savage  instincts  could  work  successfully  with  John 
Grier ;  he  knew  that  Grier  was  without  mercy  in  his 
business,  and  that  his  best  year's  work  had  been 
marked  by  a  mandatory  power  which  only  a  mal- 
evolent policy  could  produce.    Yet,  somehow,  he  had 


92 Carnac's  Folly 

a  feeling  that  Tarboe  had  a  steadying  influence  on 
John  Grier.  The  old  man  was  not  so  uncontrolled 
as  in  bygone  days. 

"I'd  like  to  see  Tarboe,"  Carnac  said  suddenly. 

**He  ain't  the  same  as  you,"  snapped  John  Grier. 
*He's  bigger,  broader,  and  huskier."  A  malicious 
smile  crossed  over  his  face.  "He's  a  bandit — that's 
what  he  is.  He's  got  a  chest  like  a  horse  and  lungs 
like  the  ocean.  When  he's  got  a  thing,  he's  got  it 
like  a  nail  in  a  branch  of  young  elm.  He's  a  dandy, 
that  fellow." 

Suddenly  passion  came  to  his  eyes.  "You  might 
have  done  it,  you've  got  the  brains,  and  the  sense, 
]but  you  ain't  got  the  ambition.  You  keep  feeling 
for  a  thousand  things  instead  of  keeping  your  grip 
on  one.  The  man  that  succeeds  fastens  hard  on 
what  he  wants  to  do —  the  one  big  thing,  and  he 
does  it,  thinking  of  naught  else." 

"Well,  that's  good  preaching,"  remarked 
Carnac  coolly.  "But  it  doesn't  mean  that  a  man 
should  stick  to  one  thing,  if  he  finds  out  he's  been 
wrong  about  it?  We  all  make  mistakes.  Perhaps 
some  day  I'll  wish  I'd  gone  with  you." 

Grimness  came  into  the  old  man's  face.  Some- 
thing came  into  his  eyes  that  was  strange  and  re- 


'At  our  Price?" 93 


vealing.  ' '  Well,  I  hope  you  will.  But  you  had  your 
chance  with  me,  and  you  threw  it  down  like  a  piece 
of  rotten  leather." 

'*I  don't  cost  you  anything,"  returned  Carnac. 
**I've  paid  my  own  way  a  long  time —  with 
mother's  help.' 

"And  you're  twenty-six  years  old,  and  what  have 
you  got?  Enough  to  give  you  bread  from  day  to 
day — ^no  more.  I  was  worth  seventy  thousand  dol- 
lars when  I  was  your  age.  I'm  worth  enough  to 
make  a  prince  rich,  and  if  I'd  been  treated  right  by 
those  I  brought  into  the  world  I'd  be  worth  twice 
as  much.  Fabian  was  good  as  far  as  he  went,  but 
he  was  a  coward.  You" — a  look  of  fury  entered  the 
dark  eyes — ''you  were  no  coward,  but  you  didn'1 
care  a  damn.    You  wanted  to  paddle  about  with 

muck  of  imagination "  he  pointed  to  the  statue 

on  the  table. 

"Why,  your  business  has  been  great  because  of 
your  imagination,"  was  the  retort.  "You  saw 
things  ahead  with  the  artist's  eye.  You  planned 
with  the  artist's  mind;  and  brought  forth  what's 
to  your  honour  and  credit — and  the  piling  up  of 
your  bank  balance.  The  only  thing  that  could  have 
induced  me  to  work  in  your  business  is  the  looking 


94 Carnac^s  Folly 

ahead  and  planning,  seeing  the  one  thing  to  be  played 
off  against  the  other,  the  fighting  of  strong  men,  the 
politics,  all  the  forces  which  go  to  make  or  break 
your  business.  Well,  I  didn't  do  it,  and  I'm  not 
sorry.  I  have  a  gift  which,  by  training  and  devel- 
opment, will  give  me  a  place  among  the  men  who  do 
things,  if  I  have  good  luck — good  luck ! ' ' 

He  dwelt  upon  these  last  words  with  an  intensity 
which  dreaded  something.  There  was  retrospection 
in  his  eyes.    A  cloud  seemed  to  cross  his  face. 

A  strong  step  crunching  the  path  stopped  the 
conversation,  and  presently  there  appeared  the  fig- 
ure of  Tarboe.  Certainly  the  new  life  had  not 
changed  Tarboe,  had  not  altered  his  sturdy,  stren- 
uous nature.  His  brown  eyes  under  the  rough 
thatch  of  his  eyebrow  took  in  the  room  with  lightning 
glance,  and  he  nodded  respectfully,  yet  with  great 
friendliness,  at  John  Grier.  He  seemed  to  have 
news,  and  he  glanced  with  doubt  at  Carnac. 

John  Grier  understood.  "Go  ahead.  What's 
happened?" 

** Nothing  that  can't  wait  till  I'm  introduced  to 
your  son,"  rejoined  Tarboe.  ' 

With  a  friendly  look,  free  from  all  furtiveness, 
Carnac  reached  out  a  hand,  small,  graceful,  firm. 


'At  our  Price?"  95 


As  Tarboe  grasped  it  in  his  own  big  paw,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  strength  in  the  grip  which  told  him 
that  the  physical  capacity  of  the  *' painter-fellow," 
as  he  afterwards  called  Carnac,  had  points  worthy 
of  respect.  On  the  instant,  there  was  admiration 
on  the  part  of  each — admiration  and  dislike.  Carnac 
liked  the  new-comer  for  his  healthy  bearing,  for  the 
iron  hardness  of  his  head,  and  for  the  intelligence 
of  his  dark  eyes.  He  disliked  him,  however,  for 
something  that  made  him  critical  of  his  father,  some- 
thing covert  and  devilishly  alert.  Both  John  Grier 
and  Tarboe  were  like  two  old  backwoodsmen,  eager 
to  reach  their  goal,  and  somewhat  indifferent  to  the 
paths  by  which  they  travelled  to  it. 

Tarboe,  on  the  other  hand,  admired  the  frank, 
pleasant  face  of  the  young  man,  which  carried  still 
the  irresponsibility  of  youth,  but  which  conveyed 
to  the  watchful  eye  a  reckless  independence,  a  fervid, 
and  perhaps  futile,  challenge  to  all  the  world. 
Tarboe  understood  that  this  young  man  had  a  frank- 
ness dangerous  to  the  business  of  life,  yet  which,  pro- 
perly applied,  might  bring  great  results.  He  dis- 
liked Carnac  for  his  uncalculating  candour;  but  he 
realized  that,  behind  all,  was  something  disturbing  to 
his  life. 


§6 Carnac's  Folly 

"It's  a  woman,"  Tarboe  said  to  himself,  "it's 
a  woman.    He's  made  a  fool  of  himself." 

Tarboe  was  right  He  had  done  what  no  one 
else  had  done — he  had  pierced  the  cloud  surround- 
ing Carnac;  it  was  a  woman. 

*  *  I  hear  you're  pulling  things  off  here, ' '  remarked 
Carnac  civilly.  ' '  He  says ' ' — pointing  to  John  Grier 
— "that  you're  making  the  enemy  squirm." 

Tarboe  nodded,  and  a  half -stealthy  smile  crept 
across  his  face.  "I  don't  think  we've  lost  anything 
coming  our  way,"  he  replied.  "We've  had  good 
luck " 

*  *  And  our  eyes  were  open, ' '  intervened  John  Grier. 
"You  push  the  brush  and  use  the  chisel,  don't 

you?"  asked  Tarboe  in  spite  of  himself  with  slight 
scorn  in  his  tone. 

"I  push  the  chisel  and  use  the  brush,"  answered 
Carnac,  smilingly  correcting  him. 

^^ That's  a  good  thing.  Is  it  yours!"  asked 
Tarboe,  nodding  and  pointing  to  the  statue  of 
the  riverman. 

Carnac  nodded.  "Yes,  I  did  that  one  day.  I'd 
like  to  do  you,  if  you'd  let  me." 

The  young  giant  waved  a  brawny  hand  and 
laughed.    He  looked  down  at  his  knee-boots  with 


'At  our  Price?"  97 


their  muddied  soles,  and  then  at  the  statue  again 
on  the  table.  ' '  I  don 't  mind  you  're  doing  me.  Turn 
about  is  fair  play.  I've  done  you  out  of  your  job." 
Then  he  added  to  the  old  man,  ''It's  good  news 
I've  got.  I've  made  the  contract  with  the  French 
firm  at  our  price." 

''At  our  price !"  remarked  the  other  with  a  grim 
smile.    "For  the  lot?" 

"Yes,  for  the  lot,  and  I've  made  the  contracts 
with  the  ships  to  carry  it." 

"At  our  price?"  again  asked  the  old  man. 

Tarboe  nodded.     "Just  a  little  better." 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  those  two  things  could 
have  been  done  in  the  time. ' '  Grier  rubbed  his  hands 
cheerfully.  "That's  a  good  day's  work.  It's  the 
best  you've  done  since  you've  come." 

Camac  watched  the  scene  with  interest.  No 
envy  moved  him,  his  soul  was  free  from  malice. 
Evidently  Tarboe  was  a  man  of  power.  Ruthless 
he  might  be,  ruthless  and  unsparing,  but  a  man 
of  power. 

At  that  instant  a  clerk  entered  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand.  "Mrs.  Grier  said  to  give  you  this,"  he 
remarked  to  Camac,  handing  it  to  him. 

Camac  took  it  and  the  clerk  departed.  The  let- 
7 


98 Carnac's  Folly 

ter  had  an  American  postmark,  and  the  handwriting 
on  the  letter  brought  trouble  to  his  eyes.  He  com- 
posed himself,  however,  and  tore  off  the  end  of  the 
envelope,  taking  out  the  letter. 

It  was  brief.  It  contained  only  a  few  lines,  but 
as  Carnac  read  them  the  colour  left  his  face.  *  *  Good 
God!"  he  said  to  himself.  Then  he  put  the  paper 
in  his  pocket,  and,  with  a  forced  smile  and  nod  to 
his  father  and  Tarboe,  left  the  office. 

''That's  queer.  The  letter  seemed  to  get  him 
in  the  vitals,"  said  John  Grier  with  surprise. 

Tarboe  nodded,  and  said  to  himself,  "It's  a 
woman  all  right."  He  smiled  to  himself  also.  He 
had  wondered  why  Camac  and  Junia  Shale  had  not 
come  to  an  understanding.  The  letter  which  had 
turned  Camac  pale  was  the  interpretation. 

''Say,  sit  down,  Tarboe,"  said  John  Grier.  "I 
^ant  to  talk  with  you." 


Chapter  VIII       John  Grier  makes  another  Offer 

I'VE  been  keeping  my  eye  on  you,  Tarboe, ' '  John 
Grier  said  presently,  his  right  hand  clutching 
unconsciously  the  statue  which  his  boy  had  left 
with  him. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you'd  forget  me  when  I  was 
making  or  breaking  you. ' ' 

**You're  a  winner,  Tarboe.  You've  got  sense 
and  judgment,  and  you  ain't  afraid  to  get  your 
own  way  by  any  route. ' ' 

He  paused,  and  gripped  the  statue  closely  in 
his  hands. 

Tarboe  nodded.  In  the  backwoods  he  had  been 
without  ambition  save  to  be  master  of  what  he  was 
doing  and  of  the  men  who  were  part  of  his  world 
of  responsibility.  Then  John  Grier  had  pulled  him 
back  into  industry  and  he  had  since  desired  to  ascend, 
to  ''make  good."  Also,  he  had  seen  Junia  often, 
and  for  her  an  aspiration  had  sprung  up  in  him 
like  a  fire  in  a  wild  place. 

When  he  first  saw  her,  she  was  standing  in  the 
doorway  through  which  Camac  had  just  passed. 
The  brightness  of  her  face,  the  wonder  of  her  eyes, 

99 


lOO Carnac's  Folly 

the  glow  of  her  cheek,  had  made  his  pulses  throb  as 
they  had  never  throbbed  before.  He  had  put  the 
thought  of  her  away  from  him,  but  it  had  come 
back  constantly  until  he  had  found  himself  looking 
for  her  in  the  street,  and  on  the  hill  that  led  to 
John  Grier's  house. 

Tarboe  realized  that  the  girl  was  drawn  towards 
Carnac,  and  that  Carnac  was  drawn  towards  the 
girl,  but  that  some  dark  depths  lay  between.  The 
letter  Carnac  had  just  received  seemed  to  him  the 
plumb-line  of  that  abyss.  Carnac  and  the  girl  were 
suited  to  each  other — that  was  clear;  and  the  girl 
was  enticing,  provoking  and  bewildering — that  was 
the  modelling  fact.  He  had  satisfaction  that  he 
had  displaced  Carnac  in  this  great  business,  and 
there  was  growing  in  him  a  desire  to  take  away  the 
chances  of  the  girl  from  Carnac  also.  With  his 
nature  it  was  inevitable.  Life  to  him  was  now  a 
puzzle  towards  the  solution  of  which  he  moved  with 
conquering  conviction. 

From  John  Grier^s  face  now,  he  realized  that 
something  was  to  be  said  affecting  his  whole  career. 
It  would,  he  was  sure,  alter  his  footsteps  in  the 
future.  He  had  a  profound  respect  for  the  little 
wiry  man,  with  the  firm  body  and  shrivelled  face. 


John  Grier  makes  another  Offer lOi 

Tarboe  watched  the  revealing  expression  of  the 
old  man's  face  and  the  motions  of  his  body.  He 
noticed  that  the  tight  grip  of  the  hand  on  the 
little  statue  of  the  riverman  had  made  the  fingers 
pale.  He  realized  how  absorbed  was  the  lumber- 
king,  who  had  given  him  more  confidence  than  he  had 
given  to  anyone  else  in  the  world.  As  near  as  he 
could  come  to  anyone,  he  had  come  to  John  Grier. 
There  had  been  differences  between  them,  but  he, 
Tarboe,  fought  for  his  own  idea,  and,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  had  conquered.  John  Grier  had  even 
treated  Tarboe 's  solutions  as  though  they  were  his 
own.  He  had  a  weird  faith  in  the  young  giant. 
He  saw  now  Tarboe 's  eyes  fixed  on  his  fingers,  and 
he  released  his  grip. 

"That's  the  thing  between  him  and  me,  Tarboe," 
he  said,  nodding  towards  the  virile  bronze.  "Think 
of  my  son  doing  that  when  he  could  do  all  this!" 
He  swept  his  arm  in  a  great  circle  which  included  the 
horizon  beyond  the  doors  and  the  windows.  "Tt 
beats  me,  and  because  it  beats  me,  and  because  he 
defies  me,  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do." 

"Don't  do  anything  you'd  be  sorry  for,  boss. 
He  ain't  a  fool  because  he 's  not  what  you  are. ' '  He 
nodded   towards    the    statue.    "You   think   that's 


'I02  Carnac's  Folly 

pottering.  I  think  it's  good  stuff.  It  will  last,  per- 
haps, when  what  you  and  I  do  is  forgotten." 

There  was  something  big  and  moving  in  Tarboe. 
He  was  a  contradiction.  A  lover  of  life,  he  was 
also  reckless  in  how  he  got  what  he  wanted.  If 
it  could  not  be  got  by  the  straight  means,  then  it 
must  be  by  the  crooked,  and  that  was  where  he  and 
Grier  lay  down  together,  as  it  were.  Yet  he  had 
some  knowledge  that  was  denied  to  John  Grier. 
The  soul  of  the  greater  things  was  in  him. 

"Give  the  boy  a  chance  to  work  out  his  life  in 
his  own  way,"  he  said  manfully.  **You  gave  him 
a  chance  to  do  it  in  your  way,  and  you  were  turned 
down.  Have  faith  in  him.  He'll  probably  come 
out  all  right  in  the  end. ' ' 

**You  mean  he'll  come  my  way!"  asked  the  old 
man  almost  rabidly.  *  *  You  mean  he  '11  do  the  things 
I  want  him  to  do  here,  as  you've  done?" 

"I  guess  so,"  answered  Tarboe,  but  without  con- 
viction in  his  tone.  ''I'm  not  sure  whether  it  wiU 
be  like  that  or  not,  but  I  know  you've  got  a  son  as 
honest  as  the  stars,  and  the  honest  man  gets  his 
own  in  the  end." 

There  was  silence  for  some  time,  then  the  old 


John  Grier  makes  another  Ojfer  103 

man  began  walking  np  and  down  the  room, 
softly,  noislessly. 

"You  talk  sense,"  he  said.  "I  care  for  that 
boy,  but  I  care  for  my  life's  work  more.  Day  in, 
day  out,  night  in,  night  out,  I've  slaved  for  it,  prayed 
for  it,  believed  in  it,  and  tried  to  make  my  wife  and 
my  boys  feel  as  I  do  about  it,  and  none  of  them  cares 
as  I  care.  Look  at  Fabian — over  with  the  enemy, 
fighting  his  own  father;  look  at  Camac,  out  in  the 
open,  taking  his  own  way."    He  paused. 

"And  your  wife?"  asked  Tarboe  almost  fur- 
tively, because  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  old  man  was 
most  unhappy  in  that  particular  field. 

"She's  been  a  good  wife,  but  she  don't  care  as 
I  do  for  success  and  money. ' ' 

"Perhaps  you  never  taught  her,"  remarked 
Tarboe  with  silky  irony. 

"Taught  her!  What  was  there  to  teach?  She 
saw  me  working;  she  knew  the  life  I  had  to  live; 
she  was  lifted  up  with  me.  I  was  giving  her  every- 
thing in  me  to  give." 

"You  mean  money  and  a  big  house  and  servants 
and  comfort."  said  Tarboe  sardonically. 

"Well,  ain't  that  right?"  snapped  the  other. 

'*Yes,  it's  all  right,  but  it  don't  always  bring 


104  Carnac's  Folly 

you  what  you  want.  It's  right,  but  it's  wrong  too. 
Women  want  more  than  that,  boss.  Women  want 
to  be  loved — sky  high." 

All  at  once  Grier  felt  himself  as  far  removed 
from  Tarboe  as  he  had  ever  been  from  Camac  or 
his  wife.  Why  was  it?  Suddenly  Tarboe  under- 
stood that  between  him  and  John  Grier  there  must 
always  be  a  flood.  He  realized  that  there  was  in 
Grier  some  touch  of  the  insane  thing;  something 
apart,  remote  and  terrible.  He  was  convinced  of 
it,  when  he  saw  Grier  suddenly  spring  up,  and  pace 
the  room  again  like  a  tortured  animal. 

''You've  got  great  influence  with  me,"  he  said. 
*'I  was  just  going  to  tell  you  something  that'd  give 
you  pleasure,  but  what  you've  said  about  my  boy 
coming  back  has  made  me  change  what  I  was  going 
to  do.  I  don't  need  to  say  I  like  you.  We  were  born 
in  the  same  nest  almost.    We've  got  the  same  ideas. ' ' 

**  Almost,"  intervened  Tarboe.  ''Not  quite, 
but  almost." 

"Well,  this  is  what  I've  got  to  say.  You've 
got  youth,  courage,  and  good  sense,  and  business 
ability,  and  what  more  does  a  man  want  in  life, 
I  ask  you  that?" 

Tarboe  nodded,  but  made  no  reply. 


John  Grier  makes  another  Offer 105 

**Well,  I  don't  feel  as  strong  as  I  used  to  do. 
I  Ve  been  breaking  up  this  last  year,  just  when  we  Ve 
been  knitting  the  cracks  in  the  building.  What  was 
in  my  mind  is  this — to  leave  you  when  I  die  the 
whole  of  my  business  to  keep  it  a  success,  and  get 
in  the  way  of  Belloc,  and  pay  my  wife  so  much  a  year 
to  live  on." 

**That  wouldn't  be  fair  to  your  wife  or  your 
sons." 

"As  for  Camac,  if  I  left  him  the  business  it'd 
be  dead  in  two  years.  Nothing  coufd  save  it.  He'd 
spoil  it,  because  he  don't  care  for  it.  I  bought 
Fabian  out.  As  for  my  wife,  she  couldn't  run  it, 
and " 

**You  could  sell  it,"  interrupted  Tarboe. 

''Sell  it!  Sell  it!"  said  Grier  wildly.  ''Sell  it 
to  whom?" 

"To  Belloc,"  was  the  malicious  reply. 

The  demon  of  anger  seized  the  old  man. 

"You  say  that  to  me — ^you — that  I  should  sell  to 
Belloc!  By  hell,  I'd  rather  bum  every  stick  and 
board  and  tree  I've  got — sweep  it  out  of  existence, 
and  die  a  beggar  than  sell  it  to  Belloc!"  Froth 
gathered  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  there  was 


lo6  Carnac's  Folly 

tumult  in  his  eyes.  *  *  Belloc !  Knuckle  down  to  him  I 
Sell  out  to  him!" 

**Well,  if  you  got  a  profit  of  twenty  per  cent, 
above  what  it's  worth  it  might  be  well.  That'd  be 
a  triumph,  not  a  defeat." 

**I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  John  Grier,  the 
passion  slowly  going  from  his  eyes.  '*I  see  what 
you  mean,  but  that  ain't  my  way.  I  want  this  busi- 
ness to  live.  I  want  Grier 's  business  to  live  long 
after  John  Grier  has  gone.  That's  why  I  was  going 
to  say  to  you  that  in  my  will  I  'm  going  to  leave  you 
this  business,  you  to  pay  my  wife  every  year  twenty 
thousand  dollars." 

**And  your  son,  Camac?" 

''Not  a  sou — ^not  a  sou — ^not  a  sou — nothing — 
that's  what  I  meant  at  first.  But  I've  changed  my 
mind  now.  I'm  going  to  leave  you  the  business,  if 
you'll  make  a  bargain  with  me.  I  want  you  to  run 
it  for  three  years,  and  take  for  yourself  all  the 
profits  over  the  twenty  thousand  dollars  a  year  that 
goes  to  my  wife.  There's  a  lot  of  money  in  it,  the 
way  you'd  work  it." 

*'I  don't  understand  about  the  three  years," 
said  Tarboe,  with  rising  colour. 

''No,  because  I  haven't  told  you,  but  you'll  take 


John  Grier  makes  another  Offer 107 

it  in  now.  I'm  going  to  leave  you  the  business  as 
though  you  were  going  to  have  it  for  ever,  but  I'll 
make  another  will  dated  a  week  later,  in  which  I  leave 
it  to  Camac.  Something  you  said  makes  me  think 
he  might  come  right,  and  it  will  be  playing  fair  to 
him  and  to  let  him  run  himself  alone,  maybe  with 
help  from  his  mother,  for  three  years.  That's  long 
enough,  and  perhaps  the  thought  of  what  he  might 
have  had  will  work  its  way  with  him.  If  it  don't — 
well,  it  won't;  that's  all;  but  I  want  you  to  have 
the  business  long  enough  to  baulk  Belloc  and  Fabian 
the  deserter.  I  want  you  for  three  years  to  fight 
this  fight  after  I'm  gone.  In  that  second  secret  will, 
I'll  leave  you  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Are 
you  game  for  it?    Is  it  worth  while?" 

The  old  man  paused,  his  head  bent  forward,  his 
eyes  alert  and  searching,  both  hands  gripping 
the  table. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  in  which  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  upon  the  wall  seemed  unduly  loud  and  in 
which  the  buzz  of  cross-cut  saws  came  sounding 
through  the  evening  air.    Yet  Tarboe  did  not  reply. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say?"  asked  Grier  at  last. 
"Won't  you  do  it— eh?" 

"I'm  studying  the  thing  out,"  answered  Tarboe 


io8 Carnac's  Folly 

quietly.  **I  don't  quite  see  about  these  two  wills. 
Why  shouldn't  the  second  will  be  found  first?" 

** Because  you  and  I  will  be  the  only  ones  that'll 
know  of  it.  That  shows  how  much  I  trust  you, 
Tarboe.  I'll  put  it  away  where  nobody  can  get  it 
except  you  or  me." 

**But  if  anything  should  happen  to  me?" 

"Well,  I'd  leave  a  letter  with  my  bank,  not  to 
be  opened  for  three  years,  or  unless  you  died,  and 
it  would  say  that  the  will  existed,  where  it  was,  and 
what  its  terms  were." 

"That  sounds  all  right,"  but  there  was  a  cloud 
on  Tarboe 's  face. 

"It's  a  great  business,"  said  Grier,  seeing 
Tarboe's  doubt.  "It's  the  biggest  thing  a  man  can 
do — and  I'm  breaking  up." 

The  old  man  had  said  the  right  thing — "It's  a 
great  business!"  It  was  the  greatness  of  the  thing 
that  had  absorbed  Tarboe.  It  was  the  bigness  made 
him  feel  life  could  be  worth  living,  if  the  huge  ma- 
chinery were  always  in  his  fingers.  Yet  he  had 
never  expected  it,  and — ^life  was  a  problem.  Who 
could  tell!  Perhaps — perhaps,  the  business  would 
always  be  his  in  spite  of  the  second  will !    Perhaps, 


John  Grier  makes  another  Ojfer  109 

he  would  have  his  chance  to  make  good.  He  got  to 
his  feet;  he  held  out  his  hand. 

''I'U  do  it." 

"Ain't  it  worth  any  thanks?" 

*'Not  between  us,"  declared  Tarboe.  ''When 
are  you  going  to  do  it?" 

*  *  To-night — ^now. ' '  He  drew  out  some  paper  and 
sat  down  with  a  pen  in  his  hand. 

**Now,"  John  Grier  repeated. 


Chapter  IX  The  Puzzle 

ON  his  way  home,  with  Luzanne's  disturbing 
letter  in  his  pocket,  Camac  met  Junia.  She 
was  supremely  Anglo-Saxon;  fresh,  fervid  and 
buoyant  with  an  actual  buoyancy  of  the  early  spring. 
She  had  tact  and  ability,  otherwise  she  could  never 
have  preserved  peace  between  the  contending  fac- 
tions, Belloc  and  Fabian,  old  John  Grier,  the  mother 
and  Carnac.  She  was  as  though  she  sought  for 
nothing,  wished  nothing  but  the  life  in  which  she 
lived.  Yet  her  wonderful  pliability,  her  joyful  boy- 
ishness, had  behind  all  a  delicate  anxiety  which  only 
showed  in  flashes  now  and  then,  fully  understood  by 
no  one  except  Carnac 's  mother  and  old  Denzil.  These 
two  having  suffered  strangely  in  life  had  realized 
that  the  girl  was  always  waiting  for  a  curtain  to  rise 
jwhich  did  not  rise,  for  a  voice  to  speak  which  gave 
no  sound. 

Yet    since    Camac 's    coming    back    there    had 
appeared  a  slight  change  in  her,  a  bountiful,  eager 
alertness,  a  sense  of  wonder  and  experiment,  add- 
ing new  interest  to  her  personality.    Carnac  was 
no 


The  Puzzle  ill 

conscious  of  this  increased  vitality,  was  impressed 
and  even  provoked  by  it.  Somehow  he  felt — for  he 
had  the  telepathic  mind — that  the  girl  admired  and 
liked  Tarboe.  He  did  not  stop  to  question  how  or 
why  she  should  like  two  people  so  different  as 
Tarboe  and  himself. 

The  faint  colour  of  the  crimsoning  maples  was 
now  in  her  cheek;  the  light  of  the  autumn  evening 
was  in  her  eyes ;  the  soft  vitality  of  September  was 
in  her  motions.  She  was  attractively  alive.  Her 
hair  waved  back  from  her  forehead  with  natural 
grace ;  her  small  feet,  with  perfect  ankles  made  her 
foothold  secure  and  sedately  joyous.  Her  brown 
hand — ^yet  not  so  brown  after  all —  held  her  hat 
lightly,  and  was,  somehow,  like  a  signal  out  of  a 
world  in  which  his  hopes  were  lost  for  the  present. 

She  was  dearer  to  him  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world;  and  he  had  in  his  hand  what  kept  them 
apart — a  sentence  of  death,  unless  he  escaped  from 
the  wanton  calling  him  to  fulfill  duties  into  which 
he  had  been  tricked.  Luzanne  Larue  had  a  terrible 
hold  over  him.  He  gripped  the  letter  in  his  pocket 
as  a  Hopi  Indian  does  the  neck  of  a  poisonous  snake. 
The  rosy  sunset  gave  the  girl's  face  a  reflected  spir- 
itual glamour ;  it  made  her,  suddenly,  a  bewildering 


112 Carnac's  Folly 

figure.  Somehow,  she  seemed  a  great  distance  from 
him — as  one  detached  and  unfamiliar. 

He  suddenly  felt  she  knew  more  than  it  was 
possible  she  should  know.  As  she  flashed  an 
inquiry  into  his  eyes,  it  was  as  though  she  said: 
**Why  don't  you  tell  me  everything,  and  I  will  help 
you  ? ' '  Or,  was  it :  "  Why  don 't  you  tell  me  every- 
thing and  end  it  all  ? "  He  longed  to  press  her  to  his 
breast,  as  he  had  once  done  in  the  woods  when  Denzil 
had  been  injured,  but  that  was  not  possible.  The 
thought  of  that  far-off  day  made  him  say  to  her, 
rather  f  utilely :     * '  How  is  Denzil  ?    How  is  Denzil  ? ' ' 

There  was  swift  surprise  in  her  face.  She 
seemed  dumbfounded,  and  then  she  said : 

** Denzil  I  He's  all  right,  but  he  does  not»  like 
your  Mr.  Tarboe." 

''My  Mr.  Tarboe !    Where  do  I  com©  in!" 

''Well,  he's  got  what  you  ought  to  have  had," 
was  the  reply.  *  *  What  you  would  have  had,  weren't 
you  a  foolish  fellow. ' ' 

"I  still  don't  understand  how  he  is  my  Mr. 
Tarboe." 

''Well,  he  wouldn't  have  been  in  your  father's 
life  if  it  weren't  for  you ;  if  you  had  done  what  your 
father  wished  you  to  do,  had " 


The  Puzzle 113 

"Had  sold  myself  for  gold — my  freedom,  my 
health,  everything  to  help  my  father's  business !  I 
don't  see  why  he  should  expect  that  what  he's  doing 
some  one  else  should  do " 

"That  Belloc  would  do,  that  Belloc  and  Fabian 
would  do,"  said  the  girl. 

"Yes,  that's  it — what  they  two  would  do.  There's 
no  genius  in  it,  though  my  father  comes  as  near 
being  a  genius  as  any  man  alive.  But  there's  a 
screw  loose  somewhere.  ...  It  wasn't  good  enough 
for  me.  It  didn't  give  me  a  chance — in  things  that 
are  of  the  mind,  the  spirit — ^my  particular  gifts, 
whatever  they  are.  They  would  have  chafed  against 
that  life." 

"In  other  words,  you're  a  genius,  which  your 
father  isn't,"  the  girl  said  almost  sarcastically. 

A  disturbed  look  came  into  Camac's  eyes.  "I'd 
have  liked  my  father  to  be  a  genius.  Then  we'd 
have  hit  it  off  together.  I  don't  ever  feel  the  things 
he  does  are  the  things  I  want  to  do;  or  the  things 
he  says  are  those  I'd  like  to  say.  He's  a  strange 
man.  He  lives  alone.  He  never  was  really  near 
Fabian  or  me.  We  were  his  sons,  but  though  Fabian 
is  a  little  bit  like  him  in  appearance,  I'm  not,  and 
8 


114 Carnac's  Folly 

never  was.    I  always  feel  that "    He  paused, 

and  she  took  up  the  tale — 

**That  he  wasn't  the  father  you'd  have  made  for 
yourself,  eh!" 

*'I  suppose  that's  it.  Conceit,  ain't  it?  Per- 
haps the  facts  are,  I'm  one  of  the  most  useless  peo- 
ple that  ever  wore  a  coat.  Perhaps  the  things  I 
do  aren't  going  to  live  beyond  me." 

**It  seems  as  though  your  father's  business  is 
going  to  live  after  him,  doesn't  it?"  the  girl  asked 
mockingly.  **  Where  are  you  going  now?"  she  added. 

**Well,  I'm  going  to  take  you  home,"  he  said, 
as  he  turned  and  walked  by  her  side  down  the  hill. 

*  *  Denzil  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  He  almost  thinks 
I'm  a  curse." 

Carnac  smiled.  **A11  genius  is  at  once  a  bless- 
ing or  a  curse.    And  what  does  Denzil  think  of  me  ? ' ' 

"Oh — a  blessing  and  a  curse  I"  she  said  whim- 
sically. 

"I  don't  honestly  think  I'm  a  blessing  to  any- 
body in  this  world.  There's  no  one  belonging  to 
me  who  believes  in  me." 

** There's  Denzil,"  she  said.  **H6  believes  in 
you." 

"He  doesn't  belong  to  me;  he  isn't  my  family." 


The  Puzzle 115 

**Who  are  your  family?  Is  it  only  those  who 
are  bone  of  your  bone  and  flesh  of  your  flesh?  Your 
family  is  much  wider,  because  you're  a  genius.  It's 
world-wide — of  all  kinds.  Denzil  belongs  to  you, 
because  you  helped  to  save  him  years  ago;  the 
Catholic  Archbishop  belongs  to  you  because  he's 
got  brains  and  a  love  of  literature  and  art;  Barode 
Barouche  belongs  to  you,  because  he's  almost  a 
genius  too." 

** Barouche  is  a  politician,"  said  Camac  with 
slight  derision. 

'  *  That's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  be  a  genius. " 

''He's  a  Frenchman." 

** Haven't  Frenchmen  genius?"  asked  the  girl. 

Camac  laughed.  *'Why,  of  course.  Barode 
Barouche — ^yes,  he's  a  great  one:  he  can  think,  he 
can  write,  and  he  can  talk;  and  the  talking 's  the  best 
that  he  does — ^though  I've  not  heard  him  speak,  but 
I've  read  his  speeches." 

** Doesn't  he  make  good  laws  at  Ottawa?" 

**He  makes  laws  at  Ottawa — whether  they're 
good  or  not  is  another  question.  I  shouldn't  be  a 
follower  of  his,  if  I  had  my  chance  though.'' 

"That's  because  you're  not  French." 

**0h  yes,  I'm  as  French  as  can  be  I    I  felt  at 


Ii6 Carnac's  Folly 

home  with,  the  French,  when  I  was  in  France.  I 
was  all  Gallic  When  I'm  here  I'm  more  Gallic 
than  Saxon.  I  don't  understand  it.  Here  am  I, 
with  all  my  blood  for  generations  Saxon,  and  yet  I 
feel  French.  If  I'd  been  born  in  the  old  country, 
it  would  have  been  in  Limerick  or  Tralee.  I'd  have 
been  Celtic  there." 

"Yet  Bar  ode  Barouche  is  a  great  man.  He  gets 
drunk  sometimes,  but  he's  great  He  gets  hold  of 
men  like  Denzil." 

"Denzil  has  queer  tastes." 

**Yes — ^he  worships  you." 

** That's  not  queer,  it's  abnormal,"  said  Camac 
with  gusto. 

"Then  I'm  abnormal,"  she  said  with  a  mocking 
laugh,  and  swung  her  hat  on  her  fingers  like  a  wheel. 

Something  stormy  and  strange  swam  in  Carnac's 
eyes.  All  his  trouble  rushed  back  on  him ;  the  hand 
in  his  pocket  crushed  the  venomous  letter  he  had 
received,  but  he  said: 

"No,  you  don't  worship  me!" 

"Who  was  it  said  all  true  intelligence  is  the 
slave  of  genius  ? ' '  she  questioned,  a  little  paler  than 
usual,  her  eye  on  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun. 

"I  don't  know  who  said  it,  but  if  that's  why 


The  Puzzle 117 

you  worship  me,  I  know  how  hollow  it  all  is,"  he 
declared  sullenly,  for  she  was  pouring  carbolic  acid 
into  a  sore. 

He  wanted  to  drag  the  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  hand  it  her  to  read;  to  tell  her  the  whole  dis- 
tressful story;  but  he  dared  not.  He  longed  for 
her,  and  yet  he  dared  not  tell  her  so.  He  half  drew 
the  letter  from  his  pocket,  but  thrust  it  back  again. 
Tell  this  innocent  girl  the  whole  ugly  story?  It 
could  not  be  done.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do 
— to  go  away,  to  put  this  world  of  French  Canada 
behind  him,  and  leave  her  free  to  follow  her  fancy, 
or  some  one  else's  fancy. 

Or  some  one  else's  fancy!  There  was  Tarboe. 
Tarboe  had  taken  from  him  the  place  in  the  business 
which  should  be  his;  he  had  displaced  him  in  his 
father 's  affections  .  .  .  and  now  Junia ! 

He  held  out  a  hand  to  the  girl.  **  I  must  go  and 
see  my  mother." 

His  eyes  abashed  her.  She  realized  there  was 
trouble  in  the  face  of  the  man  who  all  her  life 
had  been  strangely  near  and  dear  to  her.  With 
impulsiveness,  she  said: 

"You're  in  trouble,  Camac.    Let  me  help  you." 

For  one  swift  instant  he  almost  yielded.    Then 


Ii8 Carnac's  Folly 

he  gripped  her  hand  and  said:  **No — no— no.  It 
can't  be  done — ^not  yet." 

"Then  let  Denzil  help  yon.  Here  he  is,"  she 
remarked,  and  she  glanced  affectionately  at  the 
greyish,  tousled  head  of  the  habitant  who  was  work- 
ing in  the  garden  of  her  father's  house. 

Carnac  was  master  of  himself  again.  **Not  a 
bad  idea,"  he  said.    **Denzil!    Den2dl!"  he  called. 

The  little  man  looked  up.  An  instant  later  the 
figure  of  the  girl  fluttered  through  the  doorway  of 
her  home,  and  Camac  stopped  beside  Denzil  in 
the  garden. 


Chapter  X  Denzil  tells  his  Story 

YOU  keep  going,  Denzil,"  remarked  Camac  as 
he  lighted  his  pipe  and  came  close  to  the 
old  servant. 

The  face  of  the  toiler  lighted,  the  eyes  gazed 
Hndlv  at  Camac.  ''What  else  is  there  to  do?  We 
tmist  go  on.  There's  no  standing  still  in  the  world. 
We  must  go  on — surelee." 

''Even  when  it's  hard  going,  eh?"  asked  Camac, 
not  to  get  an  answer  so  much  as  to  express  his 
own  feelings. 

"Yes,  that's  right,  m'sieu' ;  that's  how  it  is.  We 
can't  stand  still  even  when  it's  hard  going — ^but 
no,  bagosh!" 

He  realized  that  around  Camac  there  was  a 
ishadow  which  took  its  toll  of  light  and  life.  He 
had  the  sound  instinct  of  primitive  man.  Strangely 
enough  in  his  own  eyes  was  the  look  in  those  of 
Camac,  a  past,  hovering  on  the  brink  of  revelation. 
His  appearance  was  that  of  one  who  had  suffered; 
his  knotted  hands,  dark  with  warm  blood,  had  in 
them  a  story  of  life's  sorrows;  his  broad  shoulders 

119 


I20 Carnac's  Folly 

were  stooped  with  the  inertia  of  long  regret;  hip 
feet  clung  to  the  ground  as  though  there  was  a  great 
weight  above  them.  But  a  smile  shimmered  at  his 
mouth,  giving  to  his  careworn  face  something  al- 
most beautiful,  lifting  the  darkness  from  his  power- 
ful, shaggy  forehead.  Many  men  knew  Denzil  by 
sight,  few  knew  him  in  actual  being.  There  was  a 
legend  that  once  he  was  about  to  be  married,  but 
the  girl  had  suddenly  gone  mad  and  drowned  her- 
self in  the  river.  No  one  thought  it  strange  that 
a  month  later  the  eldest  son  of  the  Tarboe  family 
had  been  found  dead  in  the  woods  with  a  gun  in  his 
hand  and  a  bullet  through  his  heart.  No  one  had 
ever  linked  the  death  of  Denzil 's  loved  one  with 
that  of  Almeric  Tarboe. 

It  was  unusual  for  a  Frenchman  to  give  up  his 
life  to  an  English  family,  but  that  is  what  he  had 
done,  and  of  late  he  had  watched  Junia  with  new 
eager  solicitude.  The  day  she  first  saw  Tarboe  had 
marked  an  exciting  phase  in  her  life. 

Denzil  had  studied  her,  and  he  knew  vaguely 
that  a  fresh  interest,  disturbing,  electrifying,  had 
entered  into  her.  Because  it  was  Tarboe,  the  fif- 
teen years  younger  brother  of  that  Almeric  Tarboe 
who  had  died  a  month  after  his  own  girl  had  left 


Denzil  tells  his  Story  121 

this  world,  his  soul  was  fighting — fighting. 

As  the  smoke  of  Camac's  pipe  came  curling  into 
the  air,  Denzil  put  on  his  coat,  and  laid  the  hoe  and 
rake  on  his  shoulder. 

"Yes,  even  when  it's  hard  going  we  still  have 
to  march  on — name  of  God,  yes"  he  repeated,  and 
he  looked  at  Camac  quizzically. 

"Where  are  you  going?  Don't  you  want  to 
talk  to  me?" 

"I'm  going  home,  m'sieu'.  If  you'll  come  with 
me  I'll  give  you  a  drink  of  hard  cider,  the  best 
was  ever  made." 

"I'll  come.  Denzil,  I've  never  been  in  your 
little  house.  That's  strange,  when  I've  known  you 
so  many  years." 

"It's  not  too  late  to  mend,  m'sieu'.  There  ain't 
much  in  it,  but  it's  all  I  need." 

Carnac  stepped  with  Denzil  towards  the  little 
house,  just  in  front  of  three  pine-trees  on  the  hill, 
and  behind  Junia's  home. 

"I  always  lock  my  door — always,"  said  Denzil 
as  he  turned  a  key  and  opened  the  door. 

They  entered  into  the  cool  shade  of  a  living-room. 
There  was  little  furniture,  yet  against  the  wall  was 
a  kind  of  bunk,  comfortable  and  roomy,  on  which 


122 Carnac's  Folly 

was  stretched  the  skin  of  a  brown  bear.  On  the 
wall  above  it  was  a  crucifix,  and  on  the  opposite 
wall  was  the  photograph  of  a  girl,  good-looking, 
refined,  with  large,  imaginative  eyes,  and  a  face  that 
might  have  been  a  fortune. 

Carnac  gazed  at  it  for  a  moment,  absorbed. 

"That  was  your  girl,  Denzil,  wasn't  it?" 
he  asked. 

Denzil  nodded.  **The  best  the  world  ever  had, 
m'sieu',''  he  replied,  *Hhe  very  best,  but  she  went 
queer  and  drowned  herself — ah,  but  yes!" 

"She  just  went  queer,  eh!"  Carnac  said,  look- 
ing Denzil  straight  in  the  eyes.  "Was  there  insane 
blood  in  her  family?" 

"She  wasn't  insane,"  answered  Denzil  firmly. 
"She'd  been  bad  used — ^terrible." 

"That  didn't  come  out  at  the  inquest,  did  it?" 

"Not  likely.  She  wrote  it  me.  I'm  telling  you 
what  I've  never  told  anyone."  He  shut  the  door, 
as  though  to  make  a  confessional.  "She  wrote  it 
me,  and  I  wasn't  telling  anyone — ^but  no.  She'd 
been  away  down  at  Quebec  City,  and  there  a  man  got 
hold  of  her.  Almeric  Tarboe  it  was — the  older 
brother  of  Luke  Tarboe  at  John  Grier's. ' '    Suddenly 


Denzil  tells  his  Story 123 

the  face  of  the  little  man  went  mad  with  emotion. 
*'I — I "  he  paused. 

Carnac  held  up  his  hand.  "No — ^no — ^no,  don't 
tell  me.  Tarboe — I  understand,  the  Unwritten  Law. 
You  haven't  told  me,  but  I  understand.  I  remem- 
ber :  he  was  found  in  the  woods  with  his  gun  in  his 
hand — dead.  I  read  it  all  by  accident  long  ago; 
and  that  was  the  story,  eh ! " 

**Yes.  She  was  young,  full  of  imagination. 
She  loved  me,  but  he  was  clever,  and  he  was  high 
up,  and  she  was  low  down.  He  talked  her  blind,  and 
then  in  the  woods  it  was,  in  the  woods  where  he 
died,  that  he " 

Suddenly  the  little  man  wrung  his  fingers  like 
one  robbed  of  reason.  ''He  was  a  strong  man,'* 
he  went  on,  "and  she  was  a  girl,  weak,  but  not 
wanton  .  .  .  and  so  she  died,  telling  me,  loving  me — 
so  she  died,  and  so  he  died,  too,  in  the  woods  with 
his  gun  in  his  hand.  Yes,  'twas  done  with 
his  own  gun — by  accident — by  accident!  He  stum- 
bled, and  the  gun  went  off.  That  was  the  story  at 
the  inquest.  No  one  knew  I  was  there.  I  was 
never  seen  with  him  and  I've  never  been  sorry.  He 
got  what  he  deserved — sacre,  yes !" 

There  was  something  overwhelming  in  the  face 


12.4 Carnac's  Folly 

of  the  little  resolute,  powerful  man.  His  eyes  were 
aflame.  He  was  telling  for  the  first  time  the  story 
of  his  lifelong  agony  and  shame. 

'*It  had  to  be  done.  She  was  young,  so  sweet, 
so  good,  aye,  she  was  good — in  her  soul  she  was 
good,  ah,  surelee  I  That's  why  she  died  in  the  pond. 
No  one  knew.  The  inquest  did  not  bring  out  any- 
thing, but  that's  why  he  died;  and  ever  since  I've 
been  mourning;  life  has  no  rest  for  me.  I'm  not 
sorry  for  what  I  did.  I've  told  it  you  because  you 
saved  me  years  ago  when  I  fell  down  the  bank. 
You  were  only  fourteen  then,  but  I  've  never  forgot- 
ten. And  she,  that  sweet  young  lady,  she — she  was 
there  too ;  and  now  when  I  look  at  this  Tarboe,  the 
brother  of  that  man,  and  see  her  and  know  what  I 
know — sacreV^  He  waved  a  hand.  **No — no — no, 
don't  think  there's  anything  except  what's  in  the 
soul.  That  man  has  touched  ma'm'selle — I  don't 
know  why,  but  he  has  touched  her  heart.  Perhaps 
by  his  great  bulk,  his  cleverness,  his  brains,  his  way 
of  doing  things.  In  one  sense  she's  his  slave,  be- 
cause she  doesn't  want  to  think  of  him,  and  she 
does.  She  wants  to  think  of  you — and  she  does — 
ah,  bagosh,  yes!" 


Denzil  tells  his  Story 125 

**Yes,  I  understand,"  remarked  Camac  mo- 
rosely.   "I  understand." 

''Then  why  do  you  let  her  be  under  Tarboe's 
influence?    Why  don't " 

Camac  thrust  out  a  hand  that  said  silence. 

** Denzil,  I'll  never  forget  what  you've  told  me 
about  yourself.  Some  day  you'll  have  to  tell  it  to 
the  priest,  and  then " 

''I'll  never  tell  it  till  I'm  on  my  death-bed. 
Then  I'll  teU  it,  sacre  hapteme,  yes !" 

**You're  a  bad  Catholic,  Denzil,"  remarked 
Camac  with  emotion,  but  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

**I  may  be  a  bad  Catholic,  but  the  man  deserved 
to  die,  and  he  died.  What's  the  difference,  so  far's 
the  world's  concerned,  whether  he  died  by  accident, 
or  died — as  he  died.  It's  me  that  feels  the  fury 
of  the  damned,  and  want  my  girl  back  every  hour: 
and  she  can't  come.  But  some  day  I'll  go  to  M'sieu' 
Luke  Tarboe,  and  tell  him  the  truth,  as  I've  told  it 
you — ^bagosh,  yes  I ' ' 

*  *  I  think  he  'd  try  and  kill  you,  if  you  did.  That 's 
the  kind  of  man  he  is." 

"You  think  if  he  knew  the  truth  he'd  try  and 
kill  me— he!" 

Camac  paused.    He  did  not  like  to  say  every- 


126 Carnac's  Folly 

thing  in  his  mind.  **Do  you  think  he'd  say  much 
anddoUttle?" 

**I  dunno,  I  dunno,  but  I'll  tell  him  the  truth 
and  take  my  chance."  Suddenly  he  swung  round 
and  stretched  out  appealing  hands.  "Haven't  you 
got  any  sense,  m'sieu'?  Don't  you  see  what  you 
should  do?  Ma'm'selle  Junia  cares  for  you.  I 
know  it — ^I've  seen  it  in  her  eyes  often — often." 

With  sudden  vehemence  Carnac  caught  the 
wrists  of  the  other.  *'It  can't  be,  Denzil.  I  can't 
tell  you  why  yet.  I  'm  going  away.  If  Tarboe  wants 
her — good — good;  I  must  give  her  a  chance." 

Denzil  shrank.  ''There's  something  wrong, 
m'sieu',"  he  said.  Then  his  eyes  fastened  on 
Carnac's.  Suddenly,  with  a  strange,  shining  light 
in  them,  he  added:  "It  will  all  come  right  for  you 
and  her.  I'll  live  for  that.  If  you  go  away,  I'll 
take  good  care  of  her." 

"Even  if "  Carnac  paused. 

"Yes,  even  if  he  makes  love  to  her.  He'll  want 
to  marry  her,  surelee." 

"Well,  that's  not  strange,"  remarked  Carnac. 


Chapter  XI  Carnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother 

A"\iRNAC  went  slowly  towards  his  father's  house 
V^  on  the  hill.  Fixed,  as  his  mind  was,  upon  all 
that  had  just  happened,  his  eye  took  fondly  from 
the  gathering  dusk,  pictures  which  the  artist's  mind 
cherishes — the  long  roadway,  with  the  maples  and 
pines,  the  stump  fences;  behind  which  lay  the  gar- 
nered fields,  where  the  plough  had  made  ready  the 
way  for  the  Fall  wheat ;  the  robins  twittering  in  the 
scattered  trees ;  the  cooing  of  the  wood-pigeon ;  over 
all,  the  sky  in  its  perfect  purpling  blue,  and  far 
down  the  horizon  the  evening-star  slowly  climbing. 
He  noted  the  lizards  slipping  through  the  stones; 
he  saw  where  the  wheel  of  a  wagon  had  crushed 
some  wild  flower-growth;  he  heard  the  far  call  of 
a  milkmaid  to  the  cattle ;  he  caught  the  sweet  breath 
of  decaying  verdure,  and  through  all,  the  fresh,  bit- 
ing air  of  the  new-land  autumn,  pleasantly  stinging 
his  face. 

Something  kept  saying  to  his  mind:  "It's  all 
good.  It's  life  and  light,  and  all  good."  But  his 
nerves  were  being  tried ;  his  whole  nature  was  stirred. 

127 


128 Carnac's  Folly 

He  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket  again,  and 
read  it  in  the  fading  light.  It  was  native,  naive, 
brutal,  and  unconsciously  clever — and  the  girl  who 
had  written  it  was  beautiful.  It  had  only  a  few 
lines.  It  asked  him  why  he  had  deserted  her,  his 
wife.  It  said  that  he  would  find  American  law  pro- 
tected the  deluded  stranger.  It  asked  if  he  had  so 
soon  forgotten  the  kisses  he  had  given  her,  and  did 
he  not  realize  they  were  married  ?  He  felt  that,  with 
her,  beneath  all,  there  was  more  than  malice ;  there 
was  a  passion  which  would  run  risks  to  secure  its  end. 

A  few  moments  later  he  was  in  the  room  where 
his  mother,  with  her  strong,  fine,  lonely  face,  sat 
sewing  by  the  window.  The  door  opened  squarely 
on  her,  and  he  saw  how  refined  and  sad,  yet  self- 
contained,  was  the  woman  who  had  given  him  birth. 
The  look  in  her  eyes  warmly  welcomed  him.  Her  own 
sorrows  made  her  sensitive  to  those  of  others,  and  as 
Camac  entered  she  saw  something  was  vexing  him. 

"Dear  lad!"  she  said. 

He  was  beside  her  now,  and  he  kissed  her  cheek. 

"Best  of  all  the  world,"  he  said;  and  he  did  not 
see  that  she  shrank  a  little. 

"Are  you  in  trouble?"  she  asked,  and  her  hand 
touched  his  shoulder. 


Carnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother \2^ 

The  wrong  she  had  done  him  long  ago  vexed 
her.  It  was  not  possible  this  boy  could  fit  in  with 
a  life  where,  in  one  sense,  he  did  not  belong.  It 
was  not  part  of  her  sorrow  that  he  had  given  himself 
to  painting  and  sculpture.  In  her  soul  she  believed 
this  might  be  best  for  him  in  the  end.  She  had  a 
surreptitious,  an  almost  anguished,  joy  in  the 
thought  that  he  and  John  Grier  could  not  hit  it  off. 
It  seemed  natural  that  both  men,  ignorant  of  their 
own  tragedy,  believing  themselves  to  be  father  and 
son,  should  feel  for  each  other  the  torture  of  dis- 
tance, a  misunderstanding,  which  only  she  and  one 
other  human  being  understood. 

John  Grier  was  not  the  hoy's  father.  Carnac 
was  the  son  of  Barode  Barouche. 

After  a  moment  he  said:  ** Mother,  I  know  why 
I've  come  to  you.  It's  because  I  feel  when  I'm  in 
trouble.    I  get  helped  by  being  with  you." 

**How  do  I  help,  my  boy?"  she  asked  with  a 
sad  smile,  for  he  had  said,  the  thing  dearest  to 
her  heart. 

''When  I'm  with  you,  I  seem  to  get  a  hold  on 

myself.    I've  always  had  a  strange  feeling  about 

you.    I  felt  when  I  was  a  child  that  you're  two 

people ;  one  that  lives  on  some  distant,  lonely  prairie, 

9 


130 Carnac's  Folly 

silent,  shadowy  and  terribly  loving ;  and  the  other,  a 
vocal  person,  affectionate,  alert,  good  and  generous.'* 

He  paused,  but  she  only  shook  her  head.  After 
a  moment  he  continued ;  ' '  I  know  you  aren  't  happy, 
mother,  but  maybe  you  once  were — at  the  start. ' ' 

She  got  to  her  feet,  and  drew  herself  up. 

**I'm  happy  in  your  love,  but  all  the  rest — is 
all  the  rest.  It  isn't  your  father's  fault  wholly.  He 
was  busy ;  he  forgot  me.  Dear,  dear  boy,  never  give 
up  your  soul  to  things  only,  keep  it  for  people." 

She  was  naturally  straight  and  composed;  yet 
as  she  stood  there,  she  had  a  certain  lonely  splendour 
like  some  soft  metal  burning.  Among  her  fellow- 
citizens  she  had  place  and  position,  but  she  took  no 
lead ;  she  was  always  an  isolated  attachment  of  local 
enterprises.  It  was  in  her  own  house  where  her 
skill  and  adaptability  had  success.  She  had  brought 
into  her  soul  misery  and  martyrdom,  and  all  martyrs 
are  lonely  and  apart. 

Sharp  visions  of  what  she  was  really  flashed 
through  Carnac's  mind,  and  he  said: 

''Mother,  there  must  be  something  wrong  with 
you  and  me.  You  were  naturally  a  great  woman, 
and  sometimes  I  have  a  feeling  I  might  be  a  great 
man,  but  I  don't  get  started  for  it.    I  suppose,  you 


Carnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother IJ^ 

once  had  an  idea  you'd  play  a  big  part  in  the  world? ' ' 

''Girls  have  dreams,"  she  answered  with  moist 
eyes,  ''and  at  times  I  thought  great  things  might 
come  to  me ;  but  I  married  and  got  lost. ' ' 

"You  got  lost?"  asked  Camac  anxiously,  for 
there  was  a  curious  note  in  her  voice. 

She  tried  to  change  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"Yes,  I  lost  myself  in  somebody  else's  ambitions : 
I  lost  myself  in  the  storm. ' ' 

Camac  laughed.  "Father  was  always  a  bliz- 
zard, wasn't  he?  Now  here,  now  there,  he  rushed 
about  maJdng  money,  humping  up  his  business,  and 
yet  why  shouldn't  you  have  ranged  beside  him.  I 
don't  understand." 

"No,  that's  the  bane  of  life,"  she  replied.  "We 
don't  understand  each  other.  I  can't  understand 
why  you  don't  marry  Junia.  You  love  her.  You 
don't  understand  why  I  couldn't  play  as  big  a  part 
as  your  father — I  couldn't.  He  was  always  odd — 
masterful  and  odd,  and  I  never  could  do  just  as 
he  liked." 

There  was  yearning  sadness  in  her  eyes.  "Dear 
Carnac,  John  Grier  is  a  whirlwind,  but  he's  also 
a  still  pool  in  which  currents  are  secretly  twisting. 


132 Carnac's  Folly 

turning.  His  imagination,  his  power  is  enormous; 
but  he's  Oriental,  a  barbarian." 

"You  mean  he  might  have  had  twenty  wives?" 

**He  might  have  had  twenty,  and  he'd  have  been 
the  same  to  all  of  them,  because  they  play  no  part, 
except  to  make  his  home  a  place  where  his  body 
can  live.  That's  the  kind  of  thing,  when  a  wife 
finds  it  out,  that  either  kills  her  slowly,  or  drives 
her  mad." 

*'It  didn't  kill  you,  mother,"  remarked  Carnac 
with  a  little  laugh. 

*'No,  it  didn't  kill  me." 

**And  it  didn't  drive  you  mad,"  he  continued. 

She  looked  at  him  with  burning  intensity.  *'0h 
yes,  it  did — but  I  became  sane  again."  She  gazed 
out  of  the  window,  down  the  hillside.  "Your  father 
will  soon  be  home.  Is  there  anything  you  want  to 
say  before  that?" 

Carnac  wanted  to  tell  his  tragic  story,  but  it 
was  difficult.     He  caught  his  mother's  hand. 

"What's  the  matter,  Carnac?  You  are  in  trou- 
ble. I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes — ^I  feel  it.  Is  it 
money?"  she  asked.  She  knew  it  was  not,  yet  she 
could  not  help  but  ask.  He  shook  his  head  in  negation. 

"Is  it  business?" 


Carnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother 133 

She  knew  his  answer,  yet  she  must  make  these 
steps  before  she  said  to  him:  ''Is  it  a  woman?" 

He  nodded  now.  She  caught  his  eyes  and  held 
them  with  her  own.  All  the  silence  and  sorrow,  all 
the  remorse  and  regret  of  the  past  twenty-six  years 
gathered  in  her  face. 

*'Yes  and  no,"  he  answered  with  emotion. 

''You've  quarrelled  with  Junia?" 

"No,"  he  replied. 

' '  Why  don 't  you  marry  her  ? ' '  she  urged.  ' '  We 
all  would  like  it,  even  your  father." 

"I  can't." 

' '  Why  ? ' '  she  leant  forward  with  a  slight  burning 
of  the  cheek.    "Why,  Camac?" 

He  had  determined  to  keep  his  own  secret,  to 
bide  the  thing  which  had  vexed  his  life,  but  a 
sudden  feeling  overcame  his  purpose.  With 
impulse  he  drew  out  the  letter  he  had  received 
in  John  Grier's  office  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"Read  that,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
— all  I  can." 

With  whitening  face,  she  took  the  letter  and 
read  its  few  lines.  It  was  written  in  French,  with 
savage  little  flourishes  and  twists,  and  the  name 
signed  at  the  end  was  "Luzanne."  At  last  she 
handed  it  back,  her  fingers  trembling. 


1134 Carnac's  Folly 

^'Who  is  Lnzanne,  and  what  does  it  mean?" 
What  shs  had  read  was  startling. 

He  slowly  seated  himself  beside  her.  *'I  will 
tell  you. ' ' 

When  Carnac  had  ended  his  painful  story,  she 
said  to  him:  ''It's  terrible — oh,  terrible.  But 
there  was  divorce. ' ' 

"Yes,  but  they  told  me  I  couldn't  get  a  divorce. 
Yet  I  wish  now  I'd  tried  for  it.  I've  never  heard 
a  word  from  the  girl  till  I  got  that  letter.  It 
isn't  strange  she  hasn't  moved  in  the  thing  till 
now.  It  was  I  that  should  have  acted;  and  she 
knew  that.  She  means  business,  that's  clear,  and 
it'll  be  hard  to  prove  I  didn't  marry  her  with  eyes 
wide  open.  It  gets  between  me  and  my  work  and 
my  plans  for  the  future;  between — " 

''Between  you  and  Junia,"  she  said  mourn- 
fully. "Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  get  a 
divorce  for  Junia 's  sake,  if  nothing  else." 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  I'm  not  sure  I  could  get 
a  divorce — evidence  is  so  strong  against  me,  and 
it  was  a  year  ago!  If  I  can  see  Luzanne  again 
perhaps  I  can  get  her  to  tear  up  the  marriage-lines — 
that's  what  I  want.  She  isn't  all  bad.  I  must  go 
again  to  New  York;  and  Junia  can  wait.  I'm  not 
much,  I  know — not  worth  waiting  for,  maybe,  but 
I'm  in  earnest  where  Junia 's  concerned.    I  could 


Carnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother 135 

make  a  little  home  for  her  at  once,  and  a  better  one 
as  time  went  on,  if  she  would  marry  me." 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  Carnac  added :  *  *  I  'm 
going  to  New  York.     Don 't  you  think  I  ought  to  go  ?  " 

The  gaunt,  handsome  face  of  the  woman  dark- 
ened, and  then  she  answered:    **Yes." 

There  was  silence  again  for  a  moment,  deep  and 
painful,  and  then  Carnac  spoke. 

''Mother,  I  don't  think  father  is  well.  I  see  a 
great  change  in  him.  He  hasn't  long  to  travel,  and 
some  day  you'll  have  everything.  He  might  make 
you  run  the  business,  with  Tarboe  as  manager." 

She  shuddered  slightly.  ' '  With  Tarboe — I  never 
thought  of  that — with  Tarboe!  .  .  .  Are  you  going 
to  wait  for — ^your  father ?    He'll  be  here  presently. ' ' 

*'No,  I'm  off.  I'll  go  down  the  garden,  through 
the  bushes/'  he  said.  .  .  .  ''Mother,  I've  got 
nearer  you  to-night  than  in  all  the  rest  of  my  life. ' ' 

She  kissed  him  fondly.  "You're  going  away, 
but  I  hope  you'll  come  back  in  time." 

He  knew  she  meant  Junia. 

"Yes,  I  hope  I'll  come  back  in  time." 

A  moment  later  he  was  gone,  out  of  the  side- 
door,  through  the  bushes,  and  down  the  hill,  run- 
ning like  a  boy.    He  had  for  the  first  time  talked  to 


136  Carnac^s  Folly 

his  mother  about  the  life  of  their  home;  the  facts 
she  told  him  stripped  away  the  curtain  that  hid  the 
secret  things  of  life  from  his  eyes. 

John  Grier  almost  burst  upon  his  wife.  Hs 
opened  and  shut  the  door  noisily;  he  stamped  into 
the  dusky  room. 

** Isn't  it  time  for  a  lightl*'  he  said  with  a  quiz- 
zical nod  towards  her. 

The  short  visit  of  Camac  had  straightened  her 
back. 

"I  like  the  twilight.  I  don't  light  up  until  it's 
dark,  but  if  you  wish — " 

"You  like  the  twilight;  you  don't  light  up  until 
it's  dark,  but  if  I  wish — ah,  that's  it!  Have  your 
own  way.  ...  I'm  the  breadwinner;  I'm;  the 
breadwinner;  I'm  the  fighter;  I'm  the  man  that 
makes  the  machine  go;  but  I  don't  like  the  twilight, 
and  I  don't  like  to  wait  until  it's  dark,  before  I 
light  up.     So  there  it  is!" 

She  said  nothing  at  once,  but  struck  a  match,  and 
lit  the  gas. 

**It's  easy  to  give  you  what  you  want,"  she 
answered  after  a  little.     **I'm  used  to  it  now." 

There  was  something  animal-like  in  the  thrust 


Carnac's  Talk  with  his  Mother 137 

forward  of  his  neck,  in  the  anger  that  mounted  to 
his  eyes.  When  she  had  drawn  down  the  blinds, 
he  said  to  her: 

''Who's  been  here?" 

For  an  instant  she  hesitated.  Then  she  said; 
''Camac's  been  here,  but  that  has  naught  to  do 
with  what  I  said.  I've  lived  withj  you  for  over 
thirty  years,  and  I  haven't  spoken  my  mind  often, 
but  I'm  speaJdng  it  now." 

"Never  too  late  to  mend,  eh  I"  he  gruffly  inter- 
posed. ''So  Carnac's  been  here!  Putting  up  his 
independent  clack,  eh?  He  leaves  his  old  father 
to  struggle  as  best  he  may,  and  doesn't  care  a  damn. 
That's  your  son  Carnac." 

How  she  longed  to  say  to  him.  "That's  not 
your  son  Carnac!"  but  she  could  not.  A  greyness 
crossed  over  her  face. 

"Is  Carnac  staying  here?" 

She  shook  her  head  in  negation. 

"Well,  now  I'll  tell  you  about  Carnac,"  he  said 
viciously.  "I'm  shutting  him  out  of  the  business 
of  my  life.    You  understand?" 

"You  mean — "    She  paused. 

"He*s  taten  his  course,  let  him  stick  to  it.  I'm 
taking  my  course,  and  I'll  stick  to  it" 


1-^8  Carnac's  Folly 


She  came  close  and  reached  out  a  faltering  hand. 
''John,  don't  do  what  you'll  be  sorry  for." 

*'I  never  have." 

*'When  Fabian  was  born,  you  remember  what 
you  said?    You  said,  'Life's  worth  living  now.'  " 

"Yes,  but  what  did  I  say  when  Camac  was 
bom?" 

"I  didn't  hear,  John,"  she  answered,  her  face 
turning  white. 

"Well,  I  said  naught." 


Chapter  XII  Carnac  says  Good-bye 

FABIAN  GEIER'S  house,  was  in  a  fashionable 
quarter  of  a  fashionable  street,  the  smallest 
of  all  built  there ;  but  it  was  happily  placed,  rather 
apart  from  others,  at  the  very  end  of  the  distin- 
guished promenade.  Behind  it,  a  little  way  up  the 
hill,  was  a  Roman  Catholic  chapel. 

The  surroundings  of  the  house  were  rural  for 
a  city  habitation.  Behind  it  were  commendable 
trees,  from  one  of  which  a  swing  was  hung.  In  a 
comer,  which  seemed  to;  catch  the  sun,  was  a  bird- 
cage on  a  pole,  sought  by  pigeons  and  doves.  In 
another  corner  was  a  target  for  the  bow  and  arrow 
— evidence  of  the  vigorous  life  of  the  owners  of 
the  house. 

On  the  morning  after  Carnac  told  his  mother 
he  was  going  away,  the  doors  of  the  house  were  all 
open.  Midway  between  breakfast  and  lunch,  the 
voices  of  children  sang  through  the  dining-room 
bright  with  the  morning  sun.  The  children  were 
going  to  the  top  of  the  mountain — the  two  young- 
sters who  made  the  life  of  Fabian  and  his  wife  so 

139 


140 Carnac's  Folly _^ 

busy.  Fabian  was  a  man  of  little  speech.  He  was 
slim  and  dark  and  quiet,  with  a  black  moustache  and 
smoothly  brushed  hair,  with  a  body  lithe  and  com- 
posed, yet  with  hands  broad,  strong,  stubborn. 

As  Junia  stood  by  the  dining-room  table  and 
looked  at  the  alert,  expectant  children,  she  wished 
she  also  was  going  now  to  the  mountain-top.  But 
that  could  not  be — ^not  yet.  Carnac  had  sent  a  note 
saying  he  wished  to  see  her,  and  she  had  replied 
through  Denzil  that  her  morning  would  be  spent 
with  her  sister. 

*  *  What  is  it  r '  she  remarked  to  herself.  *  *  What 
is  it?  There's  nothing  wrong.  Yet  I  feel  every- 
thing upside  down. ' ' 

Her  face  turned  slowly  towards  the  wide  moun- 
tain; it  caught  the  light  upon  the  steeple  of  the 
Catholic  chapel.  She  shuddered  slightly,  and  an 
expression  came  into  her  shadowed  eyes  not  belong- 
ing to  her  personality,  which  was  always  buoyant. 

As  she  stood  absorbed,  her  mind  in  a  maze  of 
perplexity,  a  sigh  broke  from  her  lips.  She  sud- 
denly had  a  conviction  about  Carnac;  she  felt  his 
coming  might  bring  a  crisis ;  that  what  he  might  say 
must  influence  her  whole  life.  Carnac — she  threw 
back  her  head.     Suddenly  a  sweet,  appealing,  intoxi- 


Carnac  says  Good-Bye 141 

eating  look  crossed  her  faxje.  Camac!  Yes,  there 
was  a  man,  a  man  of  men. 

Tarboe  got  his  effects  by  the  inapetuous  rush  of 
a  personality;  Camac  by  something  that  haunted, 
that  made  him  more  popular  absent  than  present. 
Carnac  compelled  thought.  When  he  was  away  she 
wanted  him ;  when  he  was  near  she  liked  to  quarrel 
with  him.  When  they  were  together,  one  moment 
she  wanted  to  takes  his  hands  in  her  hands,  and  in 
the  next  she  wanted  to  push  him  over  some  great 
cliff — he  was  so  maddening.  He  provoked  the  devil 
in  her;  yet  he  made  her  sing  the  song  of  Eden. 
What  was  it? 

As  she  asked  the  question  she  heard  a  firm  step 
on  the  path.  It  was  Carnac.  She  turned  and  stood 
waiting,  leaning  against  the  table,  watching  the  door 
through  which  he  presently  came.  He  was  dressed 
in  grey.  His  coat  was  buttoned.  He  carried  a  soft 
grey  hat,  and  somehow  his  face  gave  her  a  feeling 
that  he  had  come  to  say  good-bye.  It  startled  her; 
and  yet,  though  she  was  tempted  to  grip  her  breast, 
she  did  not.    Presently  she  spoke. 

"I  think  you're  a  very  idle  man.  Why  aren't 
you  at  work?" 

*'I  am  at  work,"  Carnac  said  cheerfully. 


142 Carnac's  Folly 

"Work  is  not  all  paint  and  canvas  of  course. 
There  has  to  be  the  thinking  beforehand.  Well,  of 
what  are  you  thinking  now?" 

* '  Of  the  evening  train  to  New  York. ' ' 

His  face  was  turned  away  from  her  at  the  instant, 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  see  the  effect  of  his 
words.  He  would  have  seen  that  apprehension  came 
to  her  eyes.  Her  mouth  opened  in  quick  amaze- 
ment. It  was  all  too  startling.  He  was  going — 
for  how  long? 

**Why  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  when  she  had 
recovered  her  poise. 

''Well,  you  see  I  haven't  quite  learned  my  paint- 
ing yet,  and  I  must  study  in  great  Art  centres  where 
one  isn't  turned  down  by  one's  own  judgement." 

''Ananias!"  she  said  at  last.     "Ananias!" 

"Why  do  you  say  I'm  a  liar?"  he  asked  flushing 
a  little,  though  there  was  intense  inquiry  in  his  eyes. 

"Because  I  think  it.  It  isn't  your  work  only 
that's  taking  you  away."  Suddenly  she  laughed. 
"What  a  fool  you  are,  Camac!  You're  not  a  goOd 
actor.    You  're  not  going  away  for  work 's  sake  only. ' ' 

"Not  for  work's  sake  only — that's  true." 

"Then  why  do  you  go?" 

"I'm  in  a  mess,  Junia.    I've  made  some  mis- 


Carnac  says  Good-Bye 143 

takes  in  my  life,  and  I'm  going  to  try  and  put  one 
of  them  right." 

"Is  anybody  trying  to  do  you  harm?'*  she 
asked  gently. 

'*  Yes,  somebody's  trying  to  hurt  me.'* 

''Hurt  him/^  she  rejoined  sharply,  and  her  eyes 
fastened  his. 

He  was  about  to  say  there  was  no  him  in  the 
matter,  but  reason  steadied  him,  and  he  said: 

''I'll  do  my  best,  Junia.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you, 
but  I  can't.  What's  to  be  done  must  be  done  by 
myself  alone." 

"Then  it  ought  to  be  done  well.'* 

"With  an  instant's  impulse  he  moved  towards  her. 

She  went  to  the  window,  however,  and  she  said : 
"Here's  Fabian.  You'll  be  glad  of  that.  You'll 
want  to  say  good-bye  to  him  and  Sibyl."  She  ran 
from  him  to  the  front  door.  "Fabian — Fabian, 
here's  a  bad  boy  who  wants  to  tell  you  things  he 
won't  tell  me."  With  these  words  she  went  into 
the  garden. 

"I  don't  think  he'll  tell  me,'*  came  Fabian's 
voice.    "Why  should  he?" 

A  moment  afterwards  the  two  men  met. 


144  Carnac's  Folly 

**Well,  what's  the  trouble,  Carnac?"  asked 
Fabian  in  a  somewhat  challenging  voice. 

**I'm  going  away." 

"Oh — for  how  long?"  Fabian  asked  quizzically. 

**I  don't  know — a  year,  perhaps.  I  want  to 
make  myself  a  better  artist,  and  also  free  myself." 

Now  his  eyes  were  on  Junia  in  her  summer-time 
recreation,  and  her  voice,  humming  a  light-opera 
air,  was  floating  to  him  through  the  autumn  morning. 

"Has  something  got  you  in  its  grip,  then!" 

"I'm  the  victim  of  a  reckless  past,  like  you.'* 

Something  provocative  was  in  his  voice  and  in 
his  words. 

"Was  my  past  reckless?"  asked  Fabian  with  sul- 
len eyes. 

"Never  so  reckless  as  mine.  You  fought,  quar- 
relled, hit,  sold  and  bought  again,  and  now  you're 
out  against  your  father,  fighting  him. ' ' 

"I  had  to  come  out  or  be  crushed." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  you  won't  be  crushed  now 
you're  out.  He  plays  boldly,  and  he  knows  his  game. 
One  or  the  other  of  you  must  prevail,  and  I  think 
it  won't  be  you,  Fabian.  John  Grier  does  as  much 
thinking  in  an  hour  as  most  of  us  do  in  a  month, 
and  with  Tarboe  he'll  beat  you  dead.    Tarboe  is 


Carnac  says  Good-Bye 145 

young;  he's  got  the  vitality  of  a  rhinoceros.  He 
knows  the  business  from  the  bark  on  the  tree.  He's 
a  flyer,  is  Tarboe,  and  you  might  have  been  in 
Tarboe's  place  and  succeeded  to  the  business." 

Fabian  threw  out  his  arms.  **But  no!  Father 
might  live  another  ten  years — though  I  don't  think 
80 — and  I  couldn't  have  stood  it.  He  was  lapping 
me  in  the  mud." 

**He  doesn't  lap  Tarboe  in  the  mud." 

"No,  and  he  wouldn't  have  lapped  you  in  the 
mud,  because  you've  got  imagination,  and  you  think 
wide  and  long  when  you  want  to.  But  I'm  middle- 
class  in  business.  I've  got  no  genius  for  the  game. 
He  didn't  see  my  steady  qualities  were  what  was 
needed.  He  wanted  me  to  be  like  himself,  an  eagle, 
and  I  was  only  a  robin  red-breast." 

Suddenly  his  eyes  flashed  and  his  teeth  set. 
"You  couldn't  stand  him,  wouldn't  put  up  with  his 
tyranny.  You  wanted  to  live  your  own  life,  and 
you're  doing  it.  When  he  bought  me  out,  what  was 
there  for  me  to  do  but  go  into  the  only  business 
I  knew,  with  the  only  big  man  in  the  business,  besides 
John  Grier.  I've  as  good  blood  as  he's  got  in  his 
veins.  I  do  business  straight.  He  didn't  want  me 
to  do  it  straight.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  we  fell 
10 


146 Carnac's  Folly 

out.  John  Grier's  a  big,  ruthless  trickster.  I 
wasn't.  I  was  for  playing  the  straight  game,  and 
I  played  it.'* 

''Well,  he's  got  his  own  way  now.  He's  got  a 
man  who  wouldn't  blink  at  throttling  his  own 
brother,  if  it'd  do  him  any  good.  Tarboe  is  iron 
and  steel;  he's  the  kind  that  succeeds.  He  likes  to 
rule,  and  he's  going  to  get  what  he  wants  mostly." 

**Is  that  why  you're  going  away?"  asked  Fabian. 
*  Don't  you  think  it'll  be  just  as  well  not  to  go,  if 
Tarboe  is  going  to  get  all  he  wants." 

"Does  Tarboe  come  here?" 

**He's  been  here  twice." 

"Visiting?" 

"No.  He  came  on  urgent  business.  There  was 
trouble  between  our  two  river-driving  camps.  He 
wanted  my  help  to  straighten  things  out,  and  he  got 
it.    He's  pretty  quick  on  the  move." 

"He  wanted  you  to  let  him  settle  it?" 

"He  settled  it,  and  I  agreed.  He  knows  how 
to  handle  men;  I'll  say  that  for  him.  He  can  run 
reckless  on  the  logs  like  a  river-driver;  he  can  break 
a  jam  like  an  expert.  He's  not  afraid  of  man,  or 
log,  or  devil.  That's  his  training.  He  got  that 
training  from  John  Grier's  firm  under  another  name. 


Carnac  says  Good-Bye 147 

I  used  to  know  Mm  by  reputation  long  before  he 
took  my  place  in  the  business —  my  place  and  yours. 
You  got  loose  from  the  business  only  to  get  tied  up 
in  knots  of  your  own  tying,"  he  added.  "What  it 
is  I  don't  know,  but  you  say  you're  in  trouble  and  I 
believe  you."  Suddenly  a  sharp  look  came  to  his 
face.    *  *  Is  it  a  woman! ' ' 

"It's  not  a  man." 

*  *  Well,  you  ought  to  know  how  to  handle  a  woman. 
You're  popular  with  women.  My  wife '11  never  hear 
a  word  against  you.  I  don't  know  how  you  do  it. 
We're  so  little  alike,  it  makes  me  feel  sometimes 
we're  not  brothers.  I  don't  know  where  you  get 
your  temperament  from." 

"It  doesn't  matter  where  I  got  it,  it's  mine.  I 
want  to  earn  my  own  living,  and  I'm  doing  it." 

Admiration  came  into  Fabian 's  face.  "  Yes, "  he 
said,  "and  you  don't  borrow — " 

"And  don't  beg  or  steal.  Mother  has  given  me 
money,  and  I'm  spending  my  own  little  legacy,  all 
but  five  thousand  dollars  of  it. ' ' 

Fabian  came  up  to  his  brother  slowly.  "If  you 
know  what's  good  for  you,  you'll  stay  where  you 
are.  You're  not  the  only  man  that  ought  to  be  mar- 
ried.   Tarboe's  a  strong  man,  and  he'll  be  father's 


148 Carnac's  Folly 

partner.  He's  handsome  in  his  rough  way  too,  is 
Tarboe.  He  knows  what  he  wants,  and  means  to 
have  it,  and  this  is  a  free  country.  Our  girls,  they 
have  their  own  way.  Why  don't  you  settle  it  now? 
Why  don't  you  marry  Junia,  and  take  her  away 
with  you — if  she'll  have  you." 

"I  can't — even  if  she'll  have  me." 

**Why  can't  you?" 

*  *  I  'm  afraid  of  the  law. ' ' 

An  uneasy  smile  hung  at  Camac's  lips.  He  sud- 
denly caught  Fabian's  shoulder  in  a  strong  grip. 
** We've  never  been  close  friends,  Fabian.  We've 
always  been  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  yet  I  feel  you'd 
rather  do  me  a  good  turn  than  a  bad  one.  Let  me 
ask  you  this — that  you'll  not  believe  anything  bad 
of  me  till  you've  heard  what  I've  got  to  say.  Will 
you  do  that?" 

Fabian  nodded.  **0f  course.  But  if  I  were 
you,  I  wouldn't  bet  on  myself,  Camac.  Junia 's 
worth  running  risks  for.  She's  got  more  brains  than 
my  wife  and  me  together,  and  she  bosses  us ;  but  with 
you,  it's  different.  I  think  you'd  boss  her.  You're 
unexpected;  you're  daring;  and  you're  reckless." 

"Yes,  I  certainly  am  reckless." 

"Then  why  aren't  you  reckless  now!    You're 


Carnac  says  Good-Bye 149 

going  away.  Why,  you  haven't  even  told  her  you 
love  her.  The  other  man  is  here,  and — IVe  seen 
him  look  at  her!  I  know  by  the  way  she  speaks 
of  him  how  she  feels.  Besides,  he's  a  great,  master- 
ful creature.  Don't  be  a  fool  I  Have  a  try  .  .  . 
Junia — Junia,"  he  called. 

The  figure  in  the  garden  with  the  flowers  turned. 
There  was  a  flicker  of  understanding  in  the  rare 
eyes.  The  girl  held  up  a  bunch  of  flowers  high  like 
a  torch. 

**I'm  coming,  my  children,"  she  called,  and,  with 
a  laugh,  she  ran  forward  through  the  doorway. 

**What  is  it  you  want,  Fabian?"  she  asked,  con- 
scious that  in  Carnac 's  face  was  consternation. 
**What  can  I  do  for  you?"   she  added,   with  a 
slight  flush. 

"Nothing  for  me,  but  for  Carnac — "  Fabian 
stretched  out  a  hand. 

She  laughed  brusquely.  **0h,  Carnac!  Carnac! 
Well,  I've  been  making  him  this  bouquet."  She 
held  it  out  towards  him.  "It's  a  farewell  bouquet 
for  his  little  journey  in  the  world.  Take  it,  Carnac, 
with  everybody's  love — with  Fabian's  love,  with 
Sibyl's  love,  with  my  love.     Take  it,  and  good-bye." 

With  a  laugh  she  caught  up  her  hat  from  the 


150 Carnac's  Folly 

table,  and  a  moment  later  she  was  in  the  street 
making  for  the  mountain-side  up  which  the  children 
had  gone. 

Camac  placed  the  bouquet  upon  the  table.  Then 
he  turned  to  his  brother. 

' '  What  a  damn  mess  you  make  of  things,  Fabian  1 '  * 


Book  II 


Chapter  XIII  Carnac's  Return 

WELL,  what's  happened  since  IVe  been  gone, 
mother  ? ' '  asked  Carnac.  *  *  Is  nobody  we  're 
interested  in  married,  or  going  to  be  married?" 

It  was  spring-time  eight  months  after  Carnac  had 
vanished  from  Montreal,  and  the  sun  of  late  April 
was  melting  the  snow  upon  the  hills,  bringing  out 
the  smell  of  the  sprouting  verdure  and  the  exultant 
song  of  the  birds. 

His  mother  replied  sorrowfully:  "Junia's  been 
away  since  last  fall.  Her  aunt  in  the  "West  was 
taken  ill,  and  she's  been  with  her  ever  since.  Tell 
me,  dearest,  is  everything  all  right  now?  Are  you 
free  to  do  what  you  want?" 

He  shook  his  head  morosely.  **No,  everything's 
all  wrong.    I  blundered,  and  I'm  paying  the  price." 

**You  didn't  find  Luzanne  Larue?" 

"Yes,  I  found  her,  but  it  was  no  good.  I  said 
there  was  divorce,  and  she  replied  I'd  done  it  with 
my  eyes  open,  and  had  signed  our  names  in  the 
book  of  the  hotel  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carnac  Grier 
and  divorce  would  not  be  possible.    Also,  I'd  let 

«53 


'154 Carn'  ic's  Folly 

things  go  for  a  year,  and  what  jury  would  give  me 
relief !  I  consulted  a  lawyer.  He  said  she  had  the 
game  in  her  hands,  and  that  a  case  could  be  put  up 
that  would  discredit  me  with  jury  or  judge,  so  there 
it  is.  .  .  .  "Well,  bad  as  she  is,  she's  fond  of  me 
in  her  way.  I  don't  think  she's  ever  gone  loose 
with  any  man;  this  is  only  a  craze,  I'm  sure.  She 
wanted  me,  and  she  meant  to  have  me." 

His  mother  protested,  *  *  No  pure,  straight  honest 
girl  would — " 

Carnac  laughed  bitterly,  and  interrupted. 
"Don't  talk  that  way,  mother.  The  girl  was 
brought  up  among  exiles  and  political  criminals  in 
the  purlieu  of  Montmartre.  What's  possible  in  one 
place  is  impossible  in  another.  Devil  as  she  is,  I 
want  to  do  her  justice. ' ' 

''Did  she  wear  a  wedding-ring?" 

**No,  but  she  used  my  name  as  her  own:  I  saw 
it  on  the  paper  door-plate.  She  said  she  would 
wait  awhile  longer,  but  if  at  the  end  of  six  months  I 
didn't  do  my  duty,  she'd  see  the  thing  through  here 
among  my  own  people." 

''Six  months — it's  overdue  now!"  She  said 
in  a^tation. 

He  nodded  helplessly.    "I'm  in  hell  as  things 


Carnac's  Return 155 

are.  There's  only  this  to  be  said:  she's  done 
naught  yet,  and  she  mayn't  do  aught!" 

They  were  roused  by  the  click  of  the  gate.  * '  That's 
your  father — that's  John  Grier,"  she  said.  They 
heard  the  front  door  open  and  shut,  a  footstep  in 
the  hall,  then  the  door  opened  and  John  Grier  came 
into  the  room. 

Preoccupation,  abstraction,  filled  his  face,  as  he 
came  forward.  It  was  as  though  he  was  looking  at 
something  distant  that  both  troubled  and  pleased 
him.  "When  he  saw  Camac  he  stopped,  his  face 
flushed.  For  an  instant  he  stood  unmoving,  and 
then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"So  you've  come  back,  Camac.  When  did  you 
get  here?" 

As  Camac  released  his  hand  from  John  Grier 's 
cold  clasp,  he  said:    **A  couple  of  hours  ago." 

The  old  man  scrutinized  him  sharply,  carefully. 
** Getting  on — ^making  money?"  he  asked.  **Got 
your  hand  in  the  pocket  of  the  world?" 

Camac  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  care  much 
about  the  pocket  of  the  world,  but  they  like  my 
work  in  London  and  New  York.  I  don't  get  Koyal 
Academy  prices,  but  I  do  pretty  well." 

**Got  some  pride,  eh?" 


156 Carnac*5  Folly 

**I'm  always  proud  when  anybody  outside  Mon- 
treal mentions  your  i^ame  1  It  makes  me  feel  I  have 
a  place  in  the  world. ' ' 

** Guess  you've  made  your  own  place,"  said  the 
other,  pleasure  coming  to  his  cheek.  "  You've  got 
your  own  shovel  and  pick  to  make  wealth." 

*  *  I  care  little  about  wealth.  All  I  want  is  enough 
to  clothe  and  feed  me,  and  give  me  a  little  home." 

"A  little  home!  Yes,  it's  time,"  remarked  the 
other,  as  he  seated  himself  in  his  big  chair  by  the 
table.     '  *  Why  don ' t  you  marry  ? ' ' 

The  old  man's  eyes  narrowed  until  there  could 
only  be  seen  a  slit  of  fire  between  the  lids,  and  a 
bitter  smile  came  to  his  lips.  He  had  told  his  wife 
a  year  ago  that  he  had  cut  Camac  out  of  all  busi- 
ness consideration.     So  now,  he  added : 

"Tarboe's  taken  your  place  in  the  business, 
Camac  Look  out  he  doesn't  take  your  little 
home  too." 

*  *  He 's  had  near  a  year,  and  he  hasn't  done  it  yet. ' ' 
"Is  that  through  any  virtue  of  yours  I" 
"Probably   not,"    answered   Camac  ironically. 

"But  I've  been  away;  he's  been  here.  He's  had 
everything  with  him.  Why  hasn't  he  pulled  it 
off  then?" 


Carnac's  Return  157 

**He  pulls  off  everything  he  plans.  He's  never 
fallen  over  his  own  feet  since  he's  been  with  me, 
and,  if  I  can  help  it,  he  won't  have  to  fall  when 
I  'm  gone. ' ' 

Suddenly  he  got  to  his  feet;  a  fit  of  passion 
seized  him.  "What's  Junia  to  me — ^nothing!  I've 
every  reason  to  dislike  her,  but  she  comes  and  goes 
as  if  the  place  belonged  to  her.  She  comes  to  my 
oi£ce;  she  comes  to  this  house;  she  visits  Fabian; 
she  tries  to  boss  everybody.  Why  don't  you  regu- 
larize it?  Why  don't  you  marry  her,  and  then  we'll 
know  where  we  are?  She's  got  more  brains  than  any- 
body else  in  our  circle.  She's  got  tact  and  humour. 
Her  sister's  a  fool;  she's  done  harm.  Junia 's 
got  sense.  What  are  you  waiting  for?  I  wouldn't 
leave  her  for  Tarboe !  Look  here,  Camac,  I  wanted 
you  to  do  what  Tarboe 's  doing,  and  you  wouldn't. 
You  cheeked  me — so  I  took  him  in.  He's  made  good 
every  foot  of  the  way.  He's  a  wonder.  I'm  a  mil- 
lionaire. I'm  two  times  a  millionaire,  and  I  got  the 
money  honestly.  I  gave  one-third  of  it  to  Fabian, 
and  he  left  us.  I  paid  him  in  cash,  and  now  he's 
fighting  me. ' '  ^ 

Camac  bristled  up:  **What  else  could  he  do? 
He  might  have  lived  on  the  interest  of  the  money, 


158 Carnac's  Folly 

and  done  notMng.  You  trained  him  for  business, 
and  he's  gone  on  with  the  business  you  trained  him 
for.  There  are  other  lumber  firms.  Why  don't 
you  quarrel  with  them?  Why  do  you  drop  on 
Fabian  as  if  he  was  dirt  I" 

**Belloc's  a  rogue  and  liar." 

**What  difference  does  that  make?  Isn't  it  a 
fair  fight?  Don't  you  want  anybody  to  sit  down 
or  stand  up  till  you  tell  them  to?  Is  it  your  view 
you  shall  tyrannize,  browbeat,  batter,  and  then  that 
everybody  you  love,  or  pretend  to  love,  shall  bow 
down  before  you  as  though  you  were  eternal  law. 
I'm  glad  I  didn't.  I'm  making  my  own  life.  You 
gave  me  a  chancel  in  your  business,  and  I  tried  it, 
and  declined  it.  You  gave  it  to  some  one  else,  and 
I  approved  of  it.    What  more  do  you  want?" 

Suddenly  a  new  spirit  of  defiance  awoke  in  him. 
"What  I  owe  you  I  don't  know,  but  if  you'll  make 
out  what  you  think  is  due,  for  what  you've  done  for 
me  in  the  way  of  food  and  clothes  and  education,  I'll 
see  you  get  it  all.  Meanwhile,  I  want  to  be  free  to 
move  on  and  do  as  I  will. ' ' 

John  Grier  sat  down  in  his  chair  again,  cold, 
merciless,  with  a  scornful  smile. 

**Yes,  yes,"  he  said  slowly,  ** you'd  have  made  a 


Carnac's  Return  159 

great  business  man  if  you'd  come  with.  me.  You 
refused.  I  don't  understand  you — I  never  did. 
There's  only  one  thing  that's  alike  in  us,  and  that's 
a  devilish  seK-respect,  self-assertion,  self-depend- 
ence. There's  nothing  more  to  be  said  between  us 
— nothing  that  counts.  Don't  get  into  a  passion, 
Carnac.  It  don't  become  you.  Good-night — 
good-night. ' ' 

Suddenly  his  mother's  face  produced  a  great 
cbange  in  Carnac.  Horror,  sorrow,  remorse,  were 
all  there.  He  looked  at  John  Grier;  then  at  his 
mother.  The  spirit  of  the  bigger  thing  crept  into 
his  heart.  He  put  his  arm  around  his  mother  and 
kissed  her. 

** Good-night,  mother,"  he  said.  Then  he  went 
to  his  father  and  held  out  a  hand.  ''You  don't 
mind  my  speaking  what  I  think?"  he  continued, 
with  a  smile.  ''I've  had  a  lot  to  try  me.  Shake 
hands  with  me,  father.  We  haven't  found  the  way 
to  walk  together  yet.  Perhaps  it  will  come;  I 
hope  so." 

Again  a  flash  of  passion  seized  John  Grier.  He 
got  to  his  feet.  "I'll  not  shake  hands  with  you, 
not  to-night.  You  can't  put  the  knife  in  and  turn 
it  around,  and  then  draw  it  out  and  put  salve  on  the 


l6o  Carnac's  Folly 

wound  and  say  every  tiling's  all  right.  Everything's 
all  wrong.  My  family's  been  my  curse.  First  one, 
then  another,  and  then  all  against  me — ^my  whole 
family  against  me  I'* 

He  dropped  back  in  his  chair  sunk  in  gloomy 
reflection. 

''Well,  good-night,"  said  Camac.  "It  will  all 
come  right  some  day." 

A  moment  afterwards  he  was  gone.  His  mother 
sat  down  in  her  seat  by  the  window;  his  father  sat 
brooding  by  the  table. 

Carnac  stole  down  the  hillside,  his  heart  burning 
in  him.    It  had  not  been  a  successful  day. 


Chapter  XIV  The  House  of  the  Three  Trees 

DURING  Camac's  absence,  Denzil  had  lain  like 
an  animal,  watching,  as  it  were,  the  doorway 
out  of  which  Tarboe  came  and  went.  His  gloom 
at  last  became  fanaticism.  During  all  the  eight 
months  of  Carnac's  absence  he  prowled  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  memory. 

While  Junia  was  at  home  he  had  been  watchfullji 
determined  to  save  her  from  Tarboe,  if  possible. 
He  had  an  obsession  of  wrong-mindedness  which  ia 
always  attached  to  crime.  Though  Luke  Tarboef 
had  done  him  no  wrong,  and  was  entitled,  if  he  could,- 
to  win  Junia  for  himself,  to  the  mind  of  Denzil  the 
stain  of  his  brother's  past  was  on  Tarboe 's  life.  He 
saw  Tarboe  and  Junia  meet;  he  knew  Tarboe  put 
himself  in  her  way,  and  he  was  right  in  thinking 
that  the  girl,  with  a  mind  for  comedy  and  coquetry, 
was  drawn  instinctively  to  danger. 

Undoubtedly  the  massive  presence  of  Tarboe,  his 
animal-like,  bull-headed  persistency,  the  fun  at  his 
big  mouth  and  the  light  in  his  bold  eye  had  a  kind 
of  charm  for  her.    It  was  as  though  she  placed  her- 

i6i  II 


1 62 Carnac's  Folly 

self  within  the  danger  zone  to  try  her  strength,  her 
will;  and  she  had  done  it  without  real  loss.  More 
than  once,  as  she  waited  in  the  office  for  old  John 
Grier  to;  come,  she  had  a  strange,  intuitive  feeling 
that  Tarboe  might  suddenly  grip  her  in  his  arms. 
She  flushed  at  the  thought  of  it;  it  seemed  so 
monstrous  and  absurd.  Yet  that  very  thought  had 
passed  through  the  mind  of  the  man.  He  was  by 
nature  a  hunter;  he  was  bold,  self-willed  and  reck- 
less. No  woman  had  ever  moved  him  in  his  life 
until  this  girl  crossed  his  path,  and  he  reached  out 
towards  her  with  the  same  will  to  control  that  he 
had  used  in  the  business  of  life.  Yet,  while  this 
brute  force  suggested  physical  control  of  the  girl, 
it  had  its  immediate  reaction.  She  was  so  fine,  so 
delicate,  and  yet  so  full  of  summer  and  the  free 
unfettered  life  of  the  New  World,  so  unimpassioned 
physically,  yet  so  passionate  in  mind  and  tempera- 
ment, that  he  felt  he  must  atone  for  the  wild 
moment's  passion — the  passion  of  possession,  which 
had  made  him  long  to  crush  her  to  his  breast.  There 
was  nothing  physically  repulsive  in  it;  it  was  the 
wild,  strong  life  of  conquering  man,  of  which  he  had 
due  share.  For,  as  he  looked  at  her  sitting  in  his 
office,  her  perfect  health,  her  slim  boyishness,  her 


The  House  of  the  Three  Trees  163 

exquisite  lines  and  graceful  turn  of  hand,  arm  and 
body,  or  the  flower-like  twist  of  the  neck,  were  the 
very  harmony  and  poetry  of  life.  But  she  was  ter- 
ribly provoking  too;  and  he  realized  that  she  was 
an  uncofLscious  coquette,  that  her  spirit  loved  mas- 
tery as  his  did. 

Denzil  could  not  know  this,  however.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  analyze  the  natures  of  these 
two  people.  He  had  instinct,  but  not  enough  to 
judge  the  whole  situation,  and  so,  for  two  months 
after  Carnac  disappeared  he  had  lived  a  life  of 
torture.  Again  and  again  he  had  determined  to  tell 
Junia  the  story  of  Tarboe's  brother,  but  instinc- 
tive delicacy  stopped  him.  He  could  not  tell  her 
the  terrible  story  which  had  robbed  him  of  all  he 
loved  and,  had  made  him  the  avenger  of  the  dead. 
A  half-dozen  times  after  she  came  back  from  John 
Grier's  ofl&ce,  with  slightly  heightening  colour,  and 
the  bright  interest  in  her  eyes,  and  had  gone  about 
the  garden  fondling  the  flowers,  he  had  started  to- 
wards her ;  but  had  stopped  short  before  her  natural 
modesty-  Besides,  why  should  he  tell  her?  She 
had  her  own  life  to  make,  her  own  row  to  hoe»  Yet, 
as  the  weeks  passed,  it  seemed  he  must  break  upon 
this  dangerous  romance;  and  then  suddenly  she  went 


164 Carnac's  Folly 

to  visit  her  sick  aunt  in  the  Far  West.  Denzil  did 
not  know,  however,  that,  in  John  Grier's  office  as 
she  had  gone  over  figures  of  a  society  in  which  she 
was  interested,  the  big  hand  of  Tarboe  had  suddenly- 
closed  upon  her  fingers,  and  that  his  head  bent  down 
beside  hers  for  one  swift  instant,  as  though  he  would 
whisper  to  her.  Then  she  quickly  detached  herself, 
yet  smiled  at  him,  as  she  said  reprovingly : 

"You  oughtn't  to  do  that.  You'll  spoil  our 
friendship." 

She  did  not  wait  longer.  As  he  stretched  out 
his  hands  to  her,  his  face  had  gone  pale :  she  vanished 
through  the  doorway,  and  in  forty-eight  hours  was 
gone  to  her  sick  aunt.  The  autumn  had  come  and 
the  winter  and  the  spring,  and  the  spring  was  al- 
most gone  when  she  returned ;  and,  with  her  return, 
Catastrophe  lifted  its  head  in  the  person  of  Denzil. 

Perhaps  it  was  imperative  instinct  that  brought 
Junia  back  in  an  hour  coincident  with  Carnac's 
return— perhaps.  In  any  case,  there  it  was.  They 
had  both  returned,  as  it  were,  in  the  self -same  hour, 
each  having  been  through  a  phase  of  emotion  not 
easy  to  put  on  paper. 

Denzil  told  here  of  Carnac's  return,  and  she  went 
to  the  house  where  Carnac's  mother  lived,  and  was 


The  House  of  the  Three  Trees  165 

depressed  at  wliat  she  saw  and  felt.  Mrs.  Grier's 
face  was  not  that  of  one  who  had  good  news.  The 
long  arms  almost  hurt  her  when  they  caught  her 
to  her  breast.  Yet  Carnac  was  a  subject  of  talk 
between  them — open,  clear-eyed  talk.  The  woman 
did  not  know  what  to  say,  except  to  praise  her  boy, 
and  the  girl  asked  questions  cheerfully,  unimpor- 
tantly as  to  sound,  but  with  every  nerve  in  her  body 
tingling.  There  was,  however,  so  much  of  the 
Commedienne  in  her,  so  much  coquetry,  that  only  one 
who  knew  her  well  could  have  seen  the  things  that 
troubled  her  behind  all.  As  though  to  punish  her- 
self, she  began  to  speak  of  Tarboe,  and  Mrs.  Grier's 
face  clouded;  she  spoke  more  of  Tarboe,  and  the 
gloom  deepened.  Then,  with  the  mask  of  coquetry 
still  upon  her  she  left  Carnac 's  mother  abashed, 
sorrowful  and  alone. 

Tarboe  had  called  in  her  absence.  Entering  the 
garden,  he  saw  Denzil  at  work.  At  the  click  of  the 
gate  Denzil  turned,  and  came  forward. 

**She  ain't  home,"  he  said  bluntly.  She's  out. 
She  ain't  here.  She's  up  at  Mr.  Grier's  house, 
bien  sur." 

To  Tarboe  Denzil 's  words  were  offensive.  It 
was  none  of  Denzil 's  business  whether  he  came  or 


1 66 Carnac's  Folly 

went  in  this  house,  or  what  his  relations  with  Junia 
were.  Democrat  as  he  was,  he  did  not  let  it  invade 
his  personal  associations.  He  knew  that  the  French- 
man was  less  likely  to  say  and  do  the  crude  thing 
than  the  Britisher. 

Tarboe  was  aware  of  the  position  held  by  Denzil 
in  the  Shale  household;  and  that  long  years  of 
service  had  given  him  authority.  All  this,  however, 
could  not  account  for  the  insolence  of  Denzil 's  words, 
but  he  had  controlled  men  too  long  to  act  rashly. 

''When  will  Mademoiselle  be  back?"  he  asked, 
putting  a  hand  on  himself. 

*' To-night,"  answered  Denzil,  with  an  antipathe- 
tic eye. 

** Don't  be  a  damn  fool.  Tell  me  the  hour  when 
you  think  she  will  be  at  home.  Before  dinner — 
within  the  next  sixty  minutes!" 

"Ma'm'selle  is  under  no  orders.  She  didn't  say 
when  she  would  be  back — but  no ! " 

"Do  you  think  she'll  be  back  for  dinner?"  asked 
Tarboe,  smothering  his  anger,  but  set  to  get  his 
own  way. 

**I  think  she'll  be  back  for  dinner — hien  sur!** 
and  he  drove  the  spade  into  the  ground. 


The  House  of  the  Three  Trees  167 

"Then  I  think  I'll  sit  down  and  wait.'*  Tarboe 
made  for  the  verandah. 

Denzil  let  him  go  on,  and  then  presently  trotted 

after  and  called  to  him.    *  *  I  'd  like  a  word  with  you. ' ' 

Tarboe  turned  round.  "Well,  what  have  you 
got  to  say." 

"It  had  better  be  said  in  my  house,  not  here," 
replied  Denzil.  His  face  was  pale,  but  there  was  a 
fiery  look  in  his  eyes. 

There  was  no  danger  of  violence,  and,  if  there 
were,  Tarboe  could  deal  with  it.  Why  should  there 
be  violence?  Why  should  that  semi-insanity  in 
Denzil 's  eyes  disturb  him?  The  one  thing  to  do  was 
to  forge  ahead.    He  nodded. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?'*  he  asked  pre- 
sently, as  they  passed  through  the  gate. 

"To  my  little  house  by  the  Three  Trees.  I've 
got  things  I'd  like  to  show  you,  and  there's  some 
things  I'd  like  to  say.  You  are  a  big  hulk  of  a 
man,  and  I'm  nobody,  but  yet  I've  b^en  close  to 
you  and  yours  in  my  time — that's  so,  for  sure." 

"You've  been  close  to  me  and  mine  in  your  time, 
eh  ?    I  didn  't  know  that. ' ' 

*  *  No,  you  didn 't  know  it.    Nobody  knew  it —  I  've 


i68 Carnac's  Folly 

kept  it  to  myself.  Your  family  wasn't  all  first-class 
— ^but  no. ' ' 

They  soon  reached  the  little  plain  board-house, 
with  the  well-laid  foundation  of  stone,  by  the  big 
Three  Trees. 

Inside  the  little  spare,  imdecorated  house,  Tarboe 
looked  round.  It  was  all  quiet  and  still  enough. 
It  was  like  a  lodge  in  the  wilderness.  Somehow, 
the  atmosphere  of  it  made  him  feel  apart  and  lonely. 
Perhaps  that  was  a  little  due  to  the  timbered  ceiling, 
to  the  walls  with  cedar  scantlings  showing,  to  the 
crude  look  of  everything — the  head  of  a  moose,  the 
skins  hanging  down  on  the  sides  of  the  walls,  the 
smell  of  the  cedar,  and  the  swift  movement  of  a  tame 
red  squirrel,  which  ran  up  the-  walls  and  over  the 
floor  and  along  the  chimney-piece,  for  Denzil  avoided 
the  iron  stove  so  common  in  these  new  cold  lands, 
md  remained  faithful  to  a  huge  old-fashioned  mantel. 

Presently  Denzil  faced  him,  having  closed  the 
door. 

*'I  said  I'd  been  near  to  your  family  and  you 
didn't  believe  me.  Sit  down,  please,  and  I'll  tell 
you  my  story." 

Seating  himself  with  a  little  curt  laugh,  Tarboe 


The  House  of  the  Three  Trees 169 

waved  a  hand  as  though  to  say,  "Go  ahead.  I'm 
ready." 

It  seemed  too  difficult  for  Denzil  to  begin.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  muttering  and  shak- 
ing his  head.  Presently,  however,  he  made  the  Sign 
of  the  Cross  upon  himself,  and,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  and  opposite  to  Tarboe,  he  began  the  story  he 
had  told  Camac. 

His  description  of  his  dead  fiancee  had  flashes  of 
poetry  and  excruciating  touches  of  life: 

*  *  She  had  no  mother,  and  there  was  lots  of  things 
she  didn't  know  because  of  that — ah,  plenty!  She 
had  to  learn,  and  she  brought  on  her  own  tragedy  by 
not  knowing  that  men,  when  even  good  to  look  at, 
can't  be  trusted ;  that  every  place,  even  in  the  woods 
and  the  fields  where  every  one  seems  safe  to  us 
outdoor  people,  ain't  safe — ^but  no.  So  she  trusted, 
and  then  one  day — " 

For  the  next  five  miutes  the  words  poured  from 
liim  in  moroseness.  He  drew  a  picture  of  the  lonely 
w^ood,  of  the  believing  credulous  girl  and  the  master- 
ful, intellectual,  skilful  man.  In  the  midst  of  it 
Tarboei  started.  The  description  of  the  place  and 
of  the  man  was  familiar.    He  had  a  vision  of  a  fair 


170 Carnac's  Folly 

young  girl  encompassed  by  danger;  he  saw  her  in  the 
man's  arms ;  the  man's  lips  to  hers,  and  — 

''Good  God — good  God!"  he  said  twice,  for  a 
glimmer  of  the  truth  struck  him.  He  knew  what 
his  brother  had  done.  He  could  conceive  the  revenge 
to  his  brother's  amorous  hand.  He  listened  till  the 
whole  tale  was  told ;  till  the  death  of  the  girl  in  the 
pond  at  home — back  in  her  own  little  home.  Then 
the  rest  of  the  sto^  shook  him. 

**The  verdict  of  the  coroner's  court  was  that  he 
was  shot  by  his  own  hand — by  accident,"  said 
Denzil.  ''That  was  the  coroner's  verdict,  but  yes  I 
Well,  he  was  sho;t  by  his  own  gun,  but  not  by  his 
own  hand.  There  was  some  one  who  loved  the  girl, 
took  toll.  The  world  did  not  know,  and  does  not 
know,  but  you  know — you — you,  the  brother  of  him 
that  spoiled  a  woman's  life!  Do  you  think  such  a 
man  should  Kve?  She  was  the  sweetest  girl  that 
ever  lived,  and  she  loved  me  I  She  told  me  the  truth 
— and  he  died  by  his  own  gun —  in  the  woods;  but 
it  wasn  't  accident — ^it  wasn ' t  accident — but  no  I  The 
girl  had  gone,  but  behind  her  was  some  one  that 
loved  her,  and  he  settled  it  once  for  all." 

As  he  had  told  the  story.  Dentil's  body  seemed  to 
contract;  his  face  took  on  an  insane  expression.    It 


The  House  of  the  Three  Trees 171 

was  ghastly  pale,  but  Ms  eyes  were  aflame.  His 
arms  stretched  out  with  grim  realisin  as  he  told 
of  the  death  of  Almeric  Tarboe. 

' '  You  Ve  got  the  whole  truth,  m  'sieu *.  I  Ve  told  it 
you  at  last.  I've  never  been  sorry  for  killing  him 
— ^never — ^never — ^never.  Now,  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it — ^you — his  brother — ^you  that  come  here 
making  love  too?" 

As  the  truth  had  dawned  upon  Tarboe,  his  great 
figure  stretched  itself.  A  black  spirit  took  posses- 
sion of  him. 

When  Denzil  had  finished,  Tarboe  stood  up. 
There  was  dementia,  cruelty,  black  purpose  in  his 
eyes,  in  every  movement. 

*  *  What  am  I  going  to  do  ?  You  killed  my  brother ! 
Well,  I  'm  going  to  kill  you.  God  blast  your  soul — 
I'm  going  to  kill  you  I" 

He  suddenly  swooped  like  an  animal  upon  Denzil, 
his  fingers  clenched  about  the  thick  throat,  insane 
rage  was  on  him. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
it  opened,  and  Camac  stepped  inside.  He  realized 
the  situation  and  rushed  forward.  There  was  no 
time  to  struggle. 

**Let  him  go,"  he  cried.    "You  devil — let  him 


172 Carnac's  Folly 

go.'*  Then  with  all  his  might,  he  struck  Tarboe 
ia  the  face. 

The  blow  brought  understanding  back  to  Tarboe. 
His  fingers  loosed  from  the  Frenchman's  throat, 
and  Camac  caught  Denzil  as  he  fell  backwards. 

"Good  God!"  said  Camao.  "Good  God,  Tar- 
boe! Wasn't  it  enough  for  your  brother  to  have 
taken  this  man's  love  without  your  trying  to  take 
Ms  life?" 

The  blow  Camac  struck  brought  conviction  to 
Tarboe,  whose  terrible  rage  passed  away.  He 
wiped  the  blood  from  his  face. 

"Is  the  little  devil  all  right?"  he  whispered. 

It  was  Denzil  who  spoke:  "Yes.  This  is  the 
second  time  M'sieu'  Camac  has  saved  my  life." 

Camac  intervened.  "Tell  me,  Tarboe  what  do 
you  mean  to  do,  now  you  know  the  truth?" 

At  last  Tarboe  thrust  out  a  hand.  "I  don't 
know  the  truth,"  he  said. 

By  this  Camac  knew  that  Denzil  was  safe  from 
the  law. 


Chapter  XV  Garnac  and  Junta 

TAEBOE  did  not  see  Junia  that  evening  nor 
for  many  evenings,  but  Camac  and  Jnnia 
met  the  next  day  in  her  own  house.  He  came  on 
her  as  she  was  arranging  the  table  for  midday  din- 
ner. She  had  taken  up  again  the  threads  of  house- 
keeping, cheering  her  father,  helping  the  old 
French-woman  cook — a  huge  creature  who  moved 
like  a  small  mountain,  and  was  a  tyrant  in  her  way 
to  the  old  cheerful  avocat,  whose  life  had  been  a 
struggle  for  existence,  yet  whose  one  daughter  had 
married  a  rich  lumberman,  and  whose  other  daughter 
could  marry  wealth,  handsomeness  and  youth,  if 
she  chose. 

"When  Camac  saw  Junia  she  was  entering  the 
dining-room  with  flowers  and  fruit,  and  he  recalled 
the  last  time  he  had  seen  her,  when  she  had  thrust 
the  farewell  bouquet  of  flowers  into  his  hand.  That 
was  in  the  early  autumn,  and  this  was  in  late  spring, 
and  the  light  in  her  face  was  as  glOiWing  as  then. 
A  remembrance  of  the  scene  came  to  the  minds  of 
both,  and  the  girl  gave  a  little  laugh. 

173 


174 Carnac's  Folly 

''Well,  well,  Camac,"  she  said  gaily,  her  cheek 
flushing,  her  eyes  warm  with  colour:  "Well,  I  sent 
you  away  with  flowers.  Did  they  bring  you  luck?** 
She  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

**Yes,  they  brought  me  a  perfect  remembrance 
— of  one  who  has  always  been  to  me  like  the  balm 
of  Gilead." 

** Soothing  and  stimulating,  eh!'*  she  asked,  as 
she  put  the  flowers  on  the  table  and  gave  him  her 
hand — ^no,  she  suddenly  gave  him  both  hands  with 
a  rush  of  old-time  friendship,  which  robbed  it  of  all 
personal  emotion. 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  hands.  He  felt  them 
tremble  in  his  warm  clasp,  the  delicate,  shivering 
pulsation  of  youth,  the  womanly  feeling.  It  was 
for  an  instant  only,  because  she  withdrew  her  fingers. 
Then  she  caught  up  an  apple  from  the  dish  she  had 
brought  in,  and  tossed  it  to  him. 

**For  a  good  boy,*'  she  said.  *'You  have  been 
a  good  boy,  haven 't  you  ? ' ' 

*'Yes,  I  think  so,  chiefly  by  remembering  a 
good  girL" 

"That's  a  pretty  compliment — ^meant  for  me?'* 

"Yes,  meant  for  you.  I  think  you  understand 
me  better  than  anyone  else.** 


Carnac  and  Junia 175 

He  noticed  her  forhead  wrinkle  slightly,  and  a 
faint,  incredulous  smile  come  to  her  lips. 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  I  understood  you, 
Carnac, ' '  she  said,  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  arranged 
dishes  on  the  sideboard.  **I  shouldn't  have  thought 
I  knew  you  well.  There's  no  Book  of  Revelations 
of  your  life  except  in  your  face." 

She  suddenly  turned  full  on  him,  and  held  his 
eyes.  *  *  Carnac,  I  think  your  face  looks  honest.  I  've 
always  thought  so,  and  yet  I  think  you're  some  thing 
of  a  scamp,  a  rogue  and  a  thief." 

There  was  determination  at  her  lips,  through 
which,  though  only  slightly  apart,  her  beautiful 
teeth,  so  straight,  so  regular,  showed.  "You  don't 
play  fair.  "What's  the  good  of  having  a  friend  if 
you  don't  tell  your  friend  your  troubles?  And 
you've  been  in  trouble,  Carnac,  and  you're  fighting 
it  through  alone.  Is  that  wise?  You  ought  to  tell 
some  bad  man,  or  some  good  woman — if  they're  both 
clever — ^what's  vexing  you.  You  see  the  bad  clever 
man  would  probably  think  out  something  that  would 
have  the  same  effect  as  the  good  clever  woman. 
They  never  would  think  out  the  same  thing,  but 
each  'd  think  out  what  would  help  you  just  the  same. ' ' 


iy6 Carnac's  Folly 


**BTit  you've  just  said  I'm  a  bad  clever  man. 
Why  shouldn't  I  work  out  my  own  trouble?" 

"Oh,  you're  bad  enough,"  she  answered,  **but 
you're  not  clever  enough." 

He  smiled  grimly.  "I'm  not  sure  though  about 
the  woman.  Perhaps  I'll  tell  the  good  clever  woman 
some  day  and  let  her  help  me,  if  she  can.  But  I'd 
warn  her  it  won 't  be  easy. ' ' 

"Then  there's  another  woman  in  it!" 

He  did  not  answer.  He  could  not  let  her  know 
the  truth,  yet  she  was  sure  she  would  come  to  know 
it  one  way  or  another. 

At  that  moment  she  leaned  over  the  table  and 
stretched  a  hand  to  arrange  something.  The  perfec- 
tion of  her  poise,  the  beauty  of  her  lines,  the  charm 
of  her  face  seized  Carnac,  and,  with  an  impulse,  he 
ran  his  arm  around  her  waist. 

"Junia — Junial"  he  said  in  a  voice  of  rash 
feeling. 

She  was  like  a  wild  bird  caught  in  its  flight.    A 

sudden  stillness  held  her,  and  then  she  turned  her 

.J 

head  towards  him,  subdued  inquiry  in  her  eyes.     For 
a  moment  only  she  looked — and  then  she  said: 

"Take  your  arm  away." 

The  conviction  that  he  ought  not  to  make  any 


Carnac  and  Junia 177 

sign  of  love  to  her  broke  his  sudden  passion.  He 
drew  back  ashamed,  yet  defiant,  rebuked,  yet  rebel- 
lious. It  was  like  a  challenge  to  her.  A  sarcastic 
smile  crossed  her  lips. 

**What  a  creature  of  impulses  you  are,  Camac! 
When  we  were  children  the  day  you  saved  Denzil 
years  ago  you  flung  your  arms  around  me  and  kissed 
me.  I  didn't  understand  anything  then,  and  what's 
more  I  don't  think  you  did.  You  were  a  wilful, 
hazardous  boy,  and  went  your  way  taking  the  flowers 
in  the  garden  that  didn't  belong  to  you.  Yet  after 
all  these  years,  with  an  impulse  behind  which  there 
is  nothing — nothing  at  all,  you  repeat  that  incident. ' ' 

Suddenly  passion  seemed  to  possess  her.  '  *  How 
dare  you  trifle  with  things  that  mean  so  much! 
Have  you  learned  nothing  since  I  saw  you  last  1  Can 
nothing  teach  you,  Camac?  Can  you  not  learn  how 
to  play  the  big  part?  If  you  weren't  grown  up,  do 
you  know  what  I  should  do?  I  should  slap  the  face 
of  an  insolent,  thoughtless,  hopeless  boy."  Then 
her  temper  seemed  to  pass.  She  caught  up  an  apple 
again  and  thrust  it  into  his  hand.  *  *  Go  and  eat  that, 
Adam.  Perhaps  it'll  make  you  wise  like  the  old 
Adam.     He  puts  his  faults  upon  a  woman." 

*'So  do  I,"  said  Carnac.    ''So  do  I." 
12 


ly^ Carnac's  Folly 

**That*s  what  you  would  do,  but  you  mustn't 
play  that  sort  of  game  with  a  good  woman. ' '  She 
burst  out  laughing.  **For  a  man  you're  a  precious 
fool!  I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  you  again.  You 
don't  improve.  You're  full  of  horrid  impulses." 
Her  passion  came  back.  **How  dare  you  put  your 
arm  around  me ! ' ' 

*'It  was  the  impulse  of  my  heart.  I  can  say  no 
more;  if  I  could  I  would.  There's  something  I 
should  like  to  tell  you,  but  I  mustn't"  He  put  the 
apple  down. 

"About  the  other  woman,  I  suppose,"  she  said 
coldly,  the  hot  indignation  gone  from  her  lips. 

He  looked  her  steadfastly  in  the  eyes.  "If  you 
won't  trust  me,  if  you  won't  trust  me " 

"I've  always  trusted  you,"  she  replied,  "but  I 
don't  trust  you  now.  Don't  you  imder stand  that 
a  good  girl  hates  conduct  like  yours?" 

Suddenly  with  anger  he  turned  upon  her.  "Yes, 
I  understand  everything,  but  you  don't  understand. 
Why  won't  you  believe  that  the  reason  I  won't  tell 
you  my  trouble  is  that  it's  best  you  shouldn't  know. 
You  're  a  young  girl ;  you  don't  know  life ;  you  haven't 
seen  it  as  I've  seen  it — in  the  stew-pan,  in  the  ditch, 
on  the  road,  on  the  mountain  and  in  the  bog.    I  want 


Carnac  and  Junia 179 

you  to  keep  faith  with  your  old  friend  who  doesn't 
care  what  the  rest  of  the  world  thinks,  but  who  wants 
your  confidence.  Trust  me — don't  abjure  me.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  haven't  been  wanton.  Won't  you 
trust  me?" 

The  spirit  of  egotism  was  alive  in  her.  She 
knew  how  much  she  had  denied  herself  in  the  past 
months.  She  did  not  know  whether  she  loved  him, 
but  injured  pride  tortured  her.  Except  in  a  dance 
and  in  sports  at  a  picnic  or  recreation-ground  no 
man  had  ever  put  his  arm  around  her.  No  man  ex- 
cept Carnac,  and  that  he  had  done  it  was  like  a 
lash  upon  the  raw  skinless  flesh.  If  she  had  been 
asked  by  the  Almighty  whether  she  loved  Carnac, 
she  would  have  said  she  did  not  know.  This  was 
not  a  matter  of  love;  but  of  womanhood,  of  self- 
respect  of  the  pride  of  one  who  cannot  ask  for  herself 
what  she  wants  in  the  field  of  love,  who  must  wait 
to  be  wooed  and  won. 

**You  don't  think  I'm  straight,"  he  said  in  pro- 
test. **You  think  I'm  no  good,  that  I'm  a  rotter. 
You're  wrong.  Believe  me,  that  is  the  truth."  He 
came  closer  up  to  her.  **  Junia,  if  you'll  stand  by 
me,  I'm  sure  I'll  come  out  right.  I've  been  caught 
in  a  mesh  I  can't  untangle  yet,  but  it  can  be  untangled, 


i8o Carnac's  Folly 

and  when  it  is,  you  shall  know  everything,  because 
then  you'll  understand.  I  can  free  myself  from  the 
tangle,  but  it  could  never  be  explained — ^not  so  the 
world  would  believe.  I  haven't  trifled  with  you.  I 
would  believe  in  you  even  if  I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw, 
the  signs  of  wrong  in  you.  I  would  know  that  at 
heart  you  were  good.  I  put  my  faith  in  you  long 
ago — ^last  year  I  staked  all  on  your  friendship,  and 
I  haven't  been  deceived." 

He  smiled  at  her,  his  soul  in  his  eyes.  There 
was  truth  in  his  smile,  and  she  realized  it. 

After  a  moment,  she  put  out  a  hand  and  pushed 
him  gently  from  her.  **Go  away,  Caxnac,  please — 
now,'*  she  said  softly. 

A  moment  afterwards  he  was  gone. 


Chapter  XVI  John  Grier  makes  a  Journey 

JOHN  GRIER 'S  business  had  beaten  all  past 
records.  Tarboe  was  everywhere ;  on  the  river, 
in  the  saw-mills,  in  the  lumber-yards,  in  the  office. 
Health  and  strength  and  goodwill  were  with  him, 
and  he  had  the  confidence  of  all  men  in  the  lumber- 
world.  It  was  rumored  that  he  was  a  partner  of 
John  Grier,  and  it  was  a  good  thing  for  him  as  well 
as  for  the  business.  He  was  no  partner,  however; 
he  was  on  a  salary  with  a  bonus  percentage  of  the 
profits ;  but  that  increased  his  vigour. 

There  were  times  when  he  longed  for  the  back- 
wood's  life;  when  the  smell  of  the  pines  and  tiie 
firs  and  the  juniper  got  into  his  nostrils ;  when  he 
heard,  in  imagination,  the  shouts  of  the  river-men 
as  they  chopped  down  the  trees,  sawed  the  boles  into 
standard  lengths,  and  plunged  the  big  timbers  into 
the  stream,  or  round  the  fire  at  night  made  call  upon 
the  spirit  of  recreation.  In  imagination,  he  felt  the 
timbers  creaking  and  straining  under  his  feet;  he 
smelt  the  rich  soup  from  the  cook's  caboose;  he 
drank  basins  of  tea  from  well-polished  metal ;  he  saw 

l8i 


1 82 Carnac's  Folly 

the  ugly  raws  in  the  taverns,  where  men  let  loose 
from  river  duty  tried  to  regain  civilian  life  by  means 
of  liquor  and  cards;  he  heard  the  stem  thud  of  a 
hard  fist  against  a  piece  of  wood;  he  saw  twenty 
men  spring  upon  another  twenty  with  rage  in  their 
faces;  he  saw  hundreds  of  men  arrived  in  civiliza- 
tion once  again  striking  for  their  homes  and  loved 
ones,  storming  with  life.  He  saw  the  door  flung 
open,  and  the  knee-booted,  corduroyed  river-man, 
with  red  sash  around  his  waist  and  gold  rings  in 
his  ears,  seize  the  woman  he  called  wife  and  swing 
her  to  him  in  a  hungry  joy;  he  saw  the  children 
pushed  gently  here,  or  roughly,  but  playfully,  tos- 
sed in  the  air  and  caught  again ;  but  he  also  saw  the 
rough  spirits  of  the  river  march  into  their  homes 
like  tyrants  returned,  as  it  were,  cursing  and  bang- 
ing their  way  back  to  their  rightful  nests. 

Occasionally  he  would  wish  to  be  in  it  all  again, 
out  in  the  wild  woods  and  on  the  river  and  in  the 
shanty,  free  and  strong  and  friendly  and  a  bit  fero- 
cious. All  he  had  known  of  the  backwood's  life 
filled  his  veins,  tortured  him  at  times. 

From  the  day  that  both  wills  were  made  and 
signed,  no  word  had  been  spoken  concerning  them 
between  him  and  John  Grier.    He  respected  and 


John  Grier  makes  a  Journey 183 

admired  certain  characteristics  of  John  Grier;  some 
secret  charities,  some  impulsive  generosity,  some 
signs  of  public  spirit.  The  old  man  was  fond  of 
animals,  and  had  given  water-troughs  to  the  town; 
and  his  own  horses,  and  the  horses  hei  used  in  the 
woods  were  always  well  fed.  Also,  in  all  his 
arrangements  for  the  woods,  he  was  generous.  He 
believed  in  feeding  his  men  well.  It  was  rough  food 
— beans,  potatoes,  peas,  lentils,  pork  in  barrels — 
salted  pork;  but  there  was  bread  of  the  best,  rich 
soup,  pork  well  boiled  and  fried,  with  good  tea, 
freshly  made.  This  was  the  regular  fare,  and  men 
throve  on  it. 

One  day,  however,  shortly  after  Carnac's  return 
home,  there  came  a  change  in  the  scene.  Things 
had  been  going  badly  for  a  couple  of  days  and  the 
old  man  had  been  seriously  overworked.  He  had 
not  listened  to  the  warnings  of  Tarboe,  or  to  the 
hints  thrown  out  by  his  own  punished  physique.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  take  hints.  Everything  that  vexed 
his  life  roused  opposition.  This  Tarboe  knew,  but 
he  also  knew  that  the  business  must  suffer,  if  the 
old  man  suffered. 

"When  John  Grier  left  the  ofl&ce  it  was  with  head 
bowed  and  mind  depressed.    Nothing  had  happened 


184 Carnac's  Folly 

to  cause  him  grave  anxiety,  yet  he  had  been  below 
par  for  several  hours.  Why  was  he  working  so 
hard?  Why  was  life  to  him  such  a  concentration? 
Why  did  he  seek  for  more  money  and  get  more 
power?  To  whom  could  it  go?  Not  to  Fabian;  not 
to  his  wife.  To  Tarboe — ^well,  there  was  not  enough 
in  that!  This  man  had  only  lately  come  into  his 
life,  and  was  only  near  to  him  in  a  business  sense. 
Camac  was  near  in  every  sense  that  really  mattered, 
and  Carnac  was  out  of  it  all. 

He  was  not  loved,  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
he  knew  it,  but  he  had  had  his  own  way,  and  he 
loved  himself.  No  one  seemed  to  care  for  him,  not 
even  his  wife.  How  many  years  was  it  since  they 
had  roomed  together?  Yet  as  he  went  towards  his 
own  home  now,  he  recalled  the  day  they  were  mar- 
ried, and  for  the  first  time  had  drawn  as  near  to 
each  other  as  life  could  draw.  He  had  thought  her 
wonderful  then,  refined,  and  oh!  so  rich  in  life's 
gifts.  His  love  had  almost  throttled  her.  She  was 
warm  and  bountiful  and  full  of  temperament.  So 
it  went  for  three  years,  and  then  slowly  he  drew 
away  from  her  until  at  last,  returning  from  the  back- 
woods, he  had  gone  to  another  room,  and  there  had 
stayed.    Very  occasionally  he  had  smothered  her 


John  Grier  makes  a  Journey 185 

with  aif  ection,  but  that  had  passed,  until  now,  middle- 
aged,  she  seemed  to  be  not  a  room  away  from  him, 
but  a  thousand  rooms  away.  He  saw  it  with  no 
reproach  to  himself.  He  forgot  it  was  he  who  had 
left  her  room,  and  had  set  up  his  own  tabernacle, 
because  his  hours  differed  from  hers,  and  because 
she  tossed  in  her  bed  at  nights,  and  that  made  him 
restless  too. 

Yet,  if  his  love  had  been  the  real  thing,  he  would 
have  stayed,  because  their  lives  were  so  similar,  and 
the  rules  of  domestic  life  in  French  Canada  were 
so  fixed.  He  had  spoiled  his  own  household,  des- 
troyed his  own  peace,  forsaken  his  own  nest,  outlived 
his  hope  and  the  possibility  of  further  hope,  except 
more  business  success,  more  to  leave  behind  him. 

That  was  the  stern  truth.  Had  he  been  a  differ- 
ent man  the  devotion  his  wife  had  shown  would  have 
drawn  him  back  to  her;  had  she  been  a  different 
woman,  unvexed  by  a  horrible  remembrance,  she 
would  have  made  his  soul  her  own  and  her  soul  his 
own  once  again.  She  had  not  dared  to  tell  him  the 
truth;  afraid  more  for  her  boy's  sake  than  for  her 
own.  She  had  been  glad  that  Tarboe  had  helped  to 
replace  the  broken  link  with  Fabian,  that  he  had 
taken  the  place  which  Camac,  had  he  been  John 


1 86 Carnac's  Folly 

Grier's  son,  ought  to  have  taken.  She  could  not 
blame  Carnac,  and  she  could  not  blame  her  husband, 
but  the  thing  ate  into  her  heai*t. 

John  Grier  found  her  sitting  by  her  table  in 
the  great  living-room,  patient  and  grave,  and  yet 
she  smiled  at  him,  and  rose  as  he  came  into  the 
room.  His  troubled  face  brought  her  forward 
quickly  to  him.  She  stretched  out  a  hand  appeal- 
ingly  to  hinL 

* 'What's  the  matter,  John?  Has  anything  up- 
set you  I" 

**I'm  not  upset.'' 

"Yes  you  are,"  she  urged,  ''but,  yes,  you  are! 
Something  has  gone  wrong." 

"Nothing's  gone  wrong  that  hasn't  been  wrong 
for  many  a  year,"  he  rasped  out. 

"What's  been  wrong  for  many  a  year?" 

"The  boys  you  brought  into  this  world — ^your 
sons!"  he  burst  out  "Why  isn't  Carnac  work- 
ing with  me?  There  must  have  been  something 
damned  bad  in  the  bringing  up  of  those  boys.  I've 
not  got  the  love  of  any  of  you,  and  I  know  it. 
What's  been  the  cause  of  it?  Why  should  I  be 
thrown  over  by  every  one?" 

"Every  one  hasn't  thrown  you  over.    Mr.  Tar- 


John  Grier  makes  a  Journey  187 

boe  hasn't  thrown  you  over.  You've  been  in  great 
spirits  about  him.    What's  the  matter?" 

He  waved  a  hand  savagely  at  her,  and  with  an 
almost  insane  look  in  his  eyes. 

*' What's  he  to  me!  He's  a  man  of  business. 
In  a  business  way  I  like  him,  but  I  want  my  own 
flesh  and  blood  by  me  in  my  business.  I  wanted 
Camac,  and  he  wouldn't  come — a  few  weeks  only 
he  came.  I  had  Fabian,  and  he  wouldn't  stay.  If 
I'd  had  a  real  chance " 

He  broke  off,  with  an  outward  savage  protest 
of  his  hands,  his  voice  falling. 

**If  you'd  had  your  chance,  you'd  have  made 
your  own  home  happy,"  she  said  sadly.  **That 
was  your  first  duty,  not  your  business — ^your  home 
— ^your  home!  You  didn't  care  labout  it  There 
were  times  when  for  months  you  forgot  me;  and 
then — then ' ' 

Suddenly  a  dreadful  suspicion  seized  his  brain. 
His  head  bent  forward,  his  shoulders  thrust  out, 
he  stumbled  towards  her. 

''Then— well,  what  then!"  he  gasped.  ''Then 
— you — ^forgot ' ' 

She  realized  she  had  gone  too  far,  saw  the  storm 
in  his  mind. 


i88 Carnac's  Folly 

"No — ^no — ^no,  I  didn't  forget  you,  John.  Never 
—but " 

She  got  no  farther.  Suddenly  his  hands 
stretched  out  as  if  to  seize  her  shoulders,  his  face 
became  tortured — ^he  swayed.  She  caught  him.  She 
lowered  him  to  the  floor,  and  put  a  hassock  under 
his  head.  Then  she  rang  the  bell — rang  it — ^and 
rang  again. 

When  help  came,  all  was  too  late.  John  Grier 
had  gone  for  ever. 


Chapter  XVII The  Reading  of  the  Will 

AS  Taxboe  stood  in  the  church  alone  at  the  funeral 
in  a  pew;  behind  John  Grier's  family,  sadness 
held  him.  He  had  known,  as  no  one  else  knew,  that 
the  business  would  pass  into  his  own  hands.  He 
suddenly  felt  his  task  too  big  for  him,  and  he  looked 
at  Camac  now  with  sympathy.  Camac  had  brains, 
capacity,  could  almost  take  his  father's  place;  he 
was  tactful,  intuitive,  alert.  Yet  Camac,  at  present, 
was  out  of  the  question.  He  knew  the  stress  of 
spirit  which  had  turned  Camac  from  the  opportun- 
ity lying  at  his  feet. 

In  spite  of  himself  there  ran  through  his  mind 
another  thought.  Near  by,  at  the  left,  dressed  in 
mourning  also,  was  Junia.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  that  Junia  should  be  his,  and  suddenly  the 
usefulness  of  the  business  about  to  fall  into  his  hands 
became  a  weapon  in  the  field  of  Love.  He  was 
physically  a  finer  man  than  Carnac ;  he  had  capacity ; 
he  had  personality ;  and  he  would  have  money  and 
position — for  a  time  at  least.  In  that  time,  why 
should  he  not  win  this  girl  with  the  wonderful  eyes 

189 


190 Carnac's  Folly 

and  hair,  with  the  frankness  and  candour  of  un- 
spoiled girlhood  in  her  face?  Presently  he  would 
be  in  the  blare  of  sensation,  in  the  height  of  as  dra- 
matic an  episode  as  comes  to  the  lives  of  men;  and 
in  the  episode  he  saw  advantages  which  should  we'gh 
with  any  girl. 

Then  had  come  the  reading  of  the  will  after  the 
funeral  rites  were  over,  and  he,  with  the  family, 
were  gathered  in  the  dining-room  of  the  House  on 
the  Hill.  He  was  scarcely  ready,  however,  for  the 
prodigious  silence  following  the  announcement  read 
by  the  lawyer.  He  felt  as  though  life  was  suspended 
for  many  minutes,  when  it  was  proclaimed  that  he, 
Luke  Tarboe,  would  inherit  the  property.  Although 
he  knew  of  the  contents  of  the  will  his  heart  was 
thumping  like  a  sledge-hammer. 

He  looked  round  the  room  slowly.  The  only 
embarrassment  to  be  seen  was  on  the  face  of  Fabian 
and  his  wife.  Mrs.  Grier  and  Camac  showed  noth- 
ing. Camac  did  not  even  move;  by  neither  gesture 
nor  motion  of  body  did  he  show  what  he  felt.  At  the 
close  of  it  all,  he  came  to  Tarboe  and  held  out  a  hand  I 

"Good  luck  to  you,  Tarboe!"  he  said.  ''You'll 
make  a  success,  and  that's  what  he  wanted  more 


The  Reading  of  the  Will 191 

than  anything  else.    Good  luck  to  you  I"  he  said 
again  and  turned  away.  .  .  . 

When  John  Grier's  will  was  published  in  the 
Press,  consternation  filled  the  minds  of  all.  Tarboe 
had  been  in  the  business  for  under  two  years,  yet 
here  he  was  left  all  the  property  with  uncontracted 
power.  Mrs.  John  Grier  was  to  be  paid  during  her 
life  a  yearly  stipend  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  from 
the  business;  she  also  received  a  grant  of  seventy 
thousand  dollars.  Beyond  that,  there  were  a  few 
gifts  to  hospitals  and  for  the  protection  of  horses, 
while  to  the  clergyman  of  the  parish  went  one  thou- 
sand dollars.  It  certainly  could  not  be  called  a  popu- 
lar will,  and,  complimentary  as  the  newspapers  were 
to  the  energy  and  success  of  John  Grier,  few  of  them 
called  him  public-spirited,  or  a  generous-hearted 
citizen.  In  his  death  he  paid  the  price  of  his  egotism. 

The  most  surprised  person,  however,  was  Junia 
Shale.  To  her  it  was  shameful  that  Carnac  should 
be  eliminated  from  all  share  in  the  abundant  for- 
tune John  Grier  had  built  up.  It  seemed  fantastic 
that  the  fortune  and  the  business — and  the  busi- 
ness was  the  fortune — should  be  left  to  Tarboe.    Had 


192  Carnac's  Folly 

she  known  the  contents  of  the  will  before  John  Grier 
was  buried,  she  would  not  have  gone  to  the  funeral. 
Egotistic  she  had  known  Grier  to  be,  and  she  imag- 
ined the  will  to  have  been  a  sudden  outcome  of  anger. 
He  was  dead  and  buried.  The  places  that  knew  him 
knew  him  no  more.  All  in  an  hour,  as  it  were,  the 
man  Tarboe — that  dominant,  resourceful  figure — had 
come  into  wealth  and  power. 

After  Junia  read  the  substance  of  the  will,  she 
went  springing  up  the  mountain-side,  as  it  were  to 
work  off  her  excitement  by  fatigue.  At  the  moun- 
tain-top she  gazed  over  the  River  St.  Lawrence  with 
an  eye  blind  to  all  except  this  terrible  distortion  of 
life.  Yet  through  her  obf uscation,  there  ran  admira- 
tion for  Tarboe.  What  a  m.an  he  was  I  He  had  cap- 
tured John  Grier  as  quickly  and  as  securely  as  a 
night  fisherman  spears  a  sturgeon  in  the  flare  at  the 
bow  of  the  boat.  Tarboe 's  ability  was  as  marked  as 
John  Grier 's  mad  policy.  It  was  extraordinary  that 
Tarboe  should  have  bewildered  and  bamboozled — 
if  that  word  could  be  used — the  old  millowner.  It  was 
as  strange  and  thrilling  as  John  Grier 's  fanaticism. 

Already  the  pinch  of  corruption  had  nipped  his 
flesh ;  he  was  useless,  motionless  in  his  narrow  house, 


The  Reading  of  the  Will 193 

and  yet  unseen  but  powerful,  his  influence  went  on. 
It  shamed  a  wife  and  son ;  it  blackened  the  doors  or 
a  home;  it  penalized  a  family. 

Indeed  he  had  been  a  bad  man,  and  yet  she  could 
not  reconcile  it  all  with  a  wonderful  something  in 
him,  a  boldness,  a  sense  of  humour,  an  everlasting 
energy,  an  electric  power.  She  had  never  seen  any- 
one vitalize  everything  round  him  as  John  Grier  had 
done.  He  threw  things  from  him  like  an  exasperated, 
giant;  he  drew  things  to  him  like  an  Angel  of  the 
Covenant.  To  him  life  was  less  a  problem  than  an 
experiment,  and  this  last  act,  this  nameless  repudia- 
tion of  the  laws  of  family  life,  was  like  the  sign  of  a 
chemist's  activity.  As  she  stood  on  the  mountain- 
top  her  breath  suddenly  came  fast,  and  with  hands 
that  had  a  hungry  grip  she  caught  her  bosom  in  anger. 

**Carnao — poor  CamacI"  she  exclaimed. 

What  would  the  world  say?  There  were  those, 
perhaps,  who  thought  Camac  almost  a  ne'er-do-well, 
but  they  were  of  the  commercial  world  where  John 
Grier  had  been  supreme. 

At  the  same  moment,  Camac  in  the  garden  of 
his  old  home  surveyed  the  river  too  and  i;he  great 
expanse  of  country,  saw  the  grey  light  of  evening 
13 


194 Carnac's  Folly 

on  the  distant  hills,  and  listened  to  Fabian  who  con- 
doled with  him.  When  Fabian  had  gone,  Camac  sat 
down  on  a  bench  and  thought  over  the  whole  thing. 
Camac  had  no  quarrel  with  his  fate.  When  in  the 
old  home  on  the  hill  he  had  heard  the  will,  it  had  sur- 
prised him,  but  it  had  not  shocked  him.  He  had 
looked  to  be  the  discarded  heir,  and  he  knew  it  now 
without  rebellion.  He  had  never  tried  to  smooth  the 
path  to  that  financial  security  which  his  father  could 
give.  Yet  now  that  disaster  had  come,  there  was 
a  glimmer  of  remorse,  of  revolt,  because  there  was 
some  one  besides  himself  who  might  think  he  had 
thrown  away  his  chances.  He  did  not  know  that 
over  on  the  mountain-side,  vituperating  the  memory 
of  the  dead  man,  Junia  was  angry  only  for 
Camac 's  sake. 

With  the  black  storm  of  sudden  death  roaring 
in  his  ears,  he  had  a  sense  of  freedom,  almost  of 
license.  Nothing  that  had  been  his  father's  was  now 
his  own,  or  his  mother's,  except  the  land  and  house 
on  which  they  were.  All  the  great  business  John 
Grier  had  built  up  was  gone  into  the  hands  of  the 
usurper,  a  young,  bold,  pestilent,  powerful,  vigorous 
man.    It  seemed  suddenly  horrible  that  the  timber- 


The  Reading  of  the  Will £95 


yards  and  the  woods  and  the  offices,  and  the  buildings 
of  John  Grier's  commercial  business  were  not  under 
his  own  direction,  or  that  of  his  mother,  or  brother. 
They  had  ceased  to  be  factors  in  the  equation ;  they 
were  non  est  in  the  post-mortem  history  of  John 
Grier.  How  immense  a  nerve  the  old  man  had  to 
make  such  a  will,  which  outraged  every  convention 
of  social  and  family  life ;  which  was,  in  effect  a  proc- 
lamation that  his  son  Carnac  had  no  place  in  John 
Grier's  scheme  of  things,  while  John  Grier's  wife 
was  rewarded  like  some  faithful  old  servant.  Yet 
some  newspapers  had  said  he  was  a  man  of  goodwill, 
and  had  appreciation  of  talent,  adding,  however,  the 
doubtful  suggestion  that  the  appreciation  stopped 
short  of  the  prowess  of  his  son  Carnac  in  the  field 
of  Art.  It  was  evident  John  Grier's  act  was  re- 
garded by  the  conventionalist  as  a  wicked  blunder. 

As  Carnac  saw  the  world  where  there  was  not  a 
single  material  thing  that  belonged  to  him,  he  had 
a  sudden  conviction  that  his  life  would  run  in  other 
lines  than  those  within  which  it  had  been  drawn  to 
the  present  time.  Looking  over  this  wonderful  pros- 
pect of  the  St.  Lawrence,  he  had  an  insistent  feeling 
that  he  ought  to  remain  in  the  land  where  he  was 


196 Carnac's  Folly 


bom,  and  give  of  whatever  lie  was  capable  to  its 
life.  It  was  all  a  stremious  problem.  For  Carnac 
there  was,  duly  or  unduly,  fairly  or  unfairly,  a  fate 
better  than  that  of  John  Grier.  If  he  died  suddenly, 
as  his  father  had  died,  a  handful  of  people  would 
sorrow  with  excess  of  feeling,  and  the  growing  world 
of  his  patrons  would  lament  his  loss.  No  one  really 
grieved  for  John  Grier 's  departure,  except — strange 
to  say — Tarboe. 


Book  III 


Chapter  XVIII  A  Great  Decision 

MONTHS  went  by.  In  them  Destiny  made 
new  drawings.  With  his  mother,  Camao 
went  to  paint  at  a  place  called  Charlemont.  Tarboe 
pursued  his  work  at  the  mills  successfully;  Junia 
saw  nothing  of  Camac,  but  she  had  a  letter  from  him, 
and  it  might  have  been  written  by  a  man  to  his 
friend,  yet  with  an  undercurrent  of  sadness  that 
troubled  her. 

She  might,  perhaps,  have  yielded  to  the  atten- 
tions of  Tarboe,  had  not  an  appealing  message  come 
from  her  aunt,  and  at  an  hour's  notice,  went  West 
again  on  her  mission  of  sick-service. 

Politically  the  Province  of  Quebec  was  in  turmoil. 
The  time  was  drawing  near  when  the  Dominion 
Government  must  go  to  the  polls,  and  in  the  most 
secluded  cottage  on  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  virtues  and 
defects  of  the  administration  were  vital  questions. 
Voters  knew  as  much  of  technical  law-making  as  the 
average  voter  everywhere,  but  no  more,  and  some- 
times less.  Yet  there  was  in  the  mind  of  the  French- 
Canadian  an  intuition,  which  was  as  valuable  as  the 

199 


200 Carnac's  Folly 

deeper  knowledge  of  a  trained  politician.  The  two 
great  parties  in  the  Province  were  led  by  Frenchmen. 
The  English  people,  however,  were  chiefly  identified 
with  the  party  opposed  to  Barode  Barouche,  the 
Secretary  of  State. 

As  the  agitation  began  in  the  late  spring,  Carnac 
became  suddenly  interested  in  everything  political. 
He  realized  what  John  Grier  had  said  concerning 
politics — that,  given  other  characteristics — the  mak- 
ing of  laws  meant  success  or  failure  for  every  profes- 
sion or  trade,  for  every  interest  in  the  country.  He 
had  known  a  few  politicians ;  though  he  had  neveryet 
met  the  most  dominant  figure  in  the  Province — 
Barode  Barouche,  who  had  a  singular  fascination  for 
him.  He  seemed  a  man  dominant  and  plausible,  with 
a  right-minded  impulsiveness.  Things  John  Grier 
had  said  about  Barouche  rang  in  his  ears. 

As  the  autumn  drew  near  excitement  increased. 
Political  meetings  were  being  held  everywhere. 
There  was  one  feature  more  common  in  Canada  than 
in  any  other  country ;  opposing  candidates  met  on  the 
same  platform  and  fought  their  fight  out  in  the  hear- 
ing of  those  whom  they  were  wooing.  One  day 
Camac  read  in  a  newspaper  that  Barode  Barouche 
was  to  speak  at  St.  Annabel.  As  that  was  not  far 
from  Charlemont  he  determined  to  hear  Barouche 


A  Great  Decision 201 

for  the  first  time.  He  had  for  him  a  sympathy  which  j 
to  himself,  seemed  a  condition  of  temperament. 

** Mother,"  he  said,  "wouldn't  you  like  to  go  and 
hear  Barode  Barouche  at  St.  Annabel?  You  know 
Mm — ^I  mean  personally?" 

'*Yes,  I  knew  him  long  ago,"  was  the  scarcely 
vocal  reply. 

''He's  a  great,  fine  man,  isn't  he?  "Wrong- 
headed,  wrong-purposed,  but  a  big  fine  fellow." 

**If  a  man  is  wrong-headed  and  wrong-purposed, 
it  isn't  easy  for  him  to  be  fine,  is  it?" 

''That  depends.  A  man  might  want  to  save  his 
country  by  making  some  good  law,  and  be  mistaken 
both  as  to  the  result  of  that  law  and  the  right  methods 
in  making  it.  I'd  like  you  to  be  with  me  when  I 
hear  him  for  the  first  time.  I've  got  a  feeling  he's 
one  of  the  biggest  men  of  our  day.  Of  course  he 
isn't  perfect.  A  man  might  want  to  save  another's 
life,  but  he  might  choose  the  wrong  way  to  do  it,  and 
that's  wrong-headed;  and  perhaps  he  oughtn't  to 
save  the  man's  life,  and  that's  wrong-purposed. 
There's  no  crime  in  either.  Let's  go  and  hear 
Monsieur  Barouche." 

He  did  not  see  the  flush  which  suddenly  filled 
her  face;  and,  if  he  had  seen,  he  would  not  have 
understood.    For  her  a  long  twenty-seven  years 


202  Garnac's  Folly 


rolled  back  to  the  day  when  she  was  a  young  neglected 
wife,  full  of  life's  vitalities,  out  on  a  junction  of  the 
river  and  the  wild  woods,  with  Barode  Barouche 's 
fishing-camp  near  by.  She  shivered  now  as  she 
thought  of  it.  It  was  all  so  strange,  and  heart-break- 
ing. For  long  years  she  had  paid  the  price  of  her 
mistake.  She  knew  how  eloquent  Barode  Barouche 
could  be ;  she  knew  how  his  voice  had  all  the  ravish- 
ment of  silver  bells  to  the  unsuspecting.  How  well 
she  knew  him ;  how  deeply  she  realized  the  darkness 
of  his  nature !     Once  she  had  said  to  him : 

''Sometimes  I  think  that  for  duty's  sake  you 
would  cling  like  a  leech." 

It  was  true.  For  thirty  long  years  he  had  been 
in  one  sense  homeless,  his  wife  having  lost  her  rea- 
son three  years  after  they  were  married.  In  that 
time  he  had  faithfully  visited  the  place  of  her  confine- 
ment every  month  of  his  life,  sobered,  chastened,  at 
first  hopeful,  defiant.  At  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
Barode  Barouche  did  not  want  marital  freedom.  He 
had  loved  the  mad  woman.  He  remembered  her  in 
the  glory  of  her  youth,  in  the  splendour  of  her  beauty. 
The  insane  asylum  did  not  destroy  his  memory. 

Mrs.  Grier  remembered  too,  but  in  a  different 
way.  Her  relations  with  him  had  been  one  swift, 
absorbing  fever — a  mad  dream,  a  moment  of  rash 


A  Great  Decision  203 

impulse,  a  yielding  to  the  natural  feeling  which  her 
own  husband  had  aroused,  the  husband  who  now  neg- 
lected her  while  Barode  Barouche  treated  her  so  well, 
until  a  day  when  under  his  beguilement  a  stormy 
impulse  gave — Carnac.  Then  the  end  came,  instant 
and  final;  she  bolted,  barred  and  locked  the  door 
against  Barode  and  he  had  made  little  effort  to  open 
it.  So  they  had  parted,  and  had  never  clasped  hands 
or  kissed  again.  To  him  she  was  a  sin  of  which  he 
never  repented.  He  had  watched  the  growth  and 
development  of  Carnac  with  a  sharp  sympathy.  He 
was  not  a  good  man ;  but  in  him  were  seeds  of  good- 
ness. To  her  he  was  the  lash  searing  her  flesh,  day 
in  day  out,  year  in  year  out,  which  kept  her  sacred 
to  her  home.  For  her  children's  sake  she  did  not 
tell  her  husband,  and  she  had  emptied  out  her  heart 
over  Carnac  with  over-whelming  fondness. 

"Yes,  I'll  go  Carnac,"  she  said  at  last,  for  it 
seemed  the  easier  way.  '  *  I  haven't  been  to  a  political 
meeting  for  many  years. ' ' 

** That's  right.  I  like  your  being  with  me." 
The  meeting  was  held  in  what  had  been  a  skating- 
rink  and  drill-hall.  On  the  platform  in  the  centre 
was  the  chairman,  with  Barode  Barouche  on  his  right. 
There  was  some  preliminary  speech-making  from  the 
chairman.    A    resolution    was    moved    supporting 


204 Carnac's  Folly 

Barouche,  his  party  and  policy,  and  there  were  little 
explosions  of  merriment  at  strokes  of  unconscious 
himiour  made  by  the  speakers ;  and  especially  by  one 
old  farmer  who  made  his  jokes  on  the  spot,  and  who 
now  tried  to  embalm  Barouche  with  praise.  He 
drew  attention  to  Barouche 's  leonine  head  and  beard, 
to  his  alert  eyes  and  quizzical  face,  and  said  he  was 
as  strong  in  the  field  of  legislation  as  he  was  in  body 
and  mind.  Camac  noticed  that  Barouche  listened 
good-naturedly,  and  now  and  then  cocked  his  head 
and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  as  though  to  find  some- 
thing there. 

There  was  a  curious  familiarity  in  the  action  of 
the  head  which  struck  Camac.  He  and  his  mother 
were  seated  about  five  rows  back  from  the  front  row 
on  the  edge  of  the  aisle.  As  the  meeting  progressed, 
Barouche 's  eyes  wandered  slowly  over  the  faces  of 
his  audience.  Presently  he  saw  Camac  and  his 
mother.  Mrs.  Grier  was  conscious  of  a  shock  upon 
the  mind  of  Barouche.  She  saw  his  eyes  go  misty 
with  feeling.  For  him  the  world  was  suddenly  shut 
out,  and  he  only  saw  the  woods  of  a  late  summer's 
afternoon,  a  lonely  tent — and  a  woman.  A  flush  crept 
up  his  face.  Then  he  made  a  quick  spasmodic  ges- 
ture of  the  hand,  outward,  which  again  Camac  recog- 


A  Great  Decision 205 

nized  as  familiar.  It  was  the  kind  of  thing  he 
did  himself. 

So  absorbed  was  Barode  Barouche  that  he  only 
mechanically  heard  the  chairman  announce  himself, 
but  when  he  got  to  his  feet  his  full  senses  came  back. 
The  sight  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  been  so  much, 
and  who  had  been  so  much  to  him  for  one  short 
month,  magnetized  him;  the  face  of  the  boy,  so  like 
his  own  as  he  remembered  it  thirty  years  ago,  stirred 
his  veins.  There  before  him  was  his  own,  one  unac- 
knowledged child — the  only  child  ever  bom  to  him. 
His  heart  throbbed. 

Then  he  began  to  speak.  Never  in  all  his  life 
had  he  spoken  as  he  did  this  day.  It  was  only  a 
rural  audience;  there  was  not  much  intelligence  in 
it ;  but  it  had  a  character  all  its  own.  It  was  alive 
to  its  own  interests,  chiefly  of  agriculture  and  the 
river.  It  was  composed  of  both  parties,  and  he 
could  stimulate  his  own  side,  and,  perhaps,  win 
the  other. 

Thus  it  was  that,  with  the  blood  pounding  through 
his  veins,  the  inspired  sensualist  began  his  speech. 
It  was  his  duty  to  map  out  a  policy  for  the  future; 
to  give  the  people  an  idea  of  what  his  party  meant 
to  do;  to  guide,  to  inspire,  to  inflame. 

As  Carnac  listened  he  kept  framing  the  words 


2o6 Carnac's  Folly 

not  yet  issued,  but  which  did  issue  from  Barouche 's 
mouth ;  his  quick  intelligence  correctly  imagined  the 
line  Barouche  would  take ;  again  and  again  Barouche 
made  a  gesture,  or  tossed  his  head,  or  swung  upon  his 
feet  to  right  and  left  in  harmony  with  Carnac's  own 
mind.  Carnac  would  say  to  himself,  **Why,  that's 
what  I'd  have  done — that's  what  I'd  have  said,  if  I 
had  his  policy."  More  thau  once,  in  some  inspired 
moment  of  the  speech,  he  caught  his  mother's  hand, 
and  he  did  not  notice  that  her  hand  trembled. 

But  as  for  one  of  Barouche 's  chapter  of  policy, 
Carnac  almost  sprang  to  his  feet  in  protest  when 
Barouche  declared  it.  To  Carnac  it  seemed  fatal 
to  French  Canada,  though  it  was  expounded  with 
a  taking  air;  yet  as  he  himself  had  said  is  was 
''wrong-headed  and  wrong-purposed." 

When  the  speech  had  finished  to  great  cheering, 
Carnac  suddenly  turned  to  his  mother. 

''He's  on  the  wrong  track.  I  know  the  policy  to 
down  his.  He's  got  no  opponent.  I'm  going  to 
stand  against  him  at  the  polls. ' ' 

She  clutched  his  arm.  ' '  Carnac — Carnac !  Yea 
don't  know  what  you're  doing." 

"Well,  I  will  pretty  quick,"  he  replied  stoutly. 
"I'm  out  after  him,  if  they'll  have  me." 


Chapter  XIX  Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate 

THAT  night  Camao  mapped  out  his  course,  care- 
fully framed  the  policy  of  offset  that  of 
Barode  Barouche,  and  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Chairman 
of  the  Opposition  at  Montreal  offering  to  stand,  and 
putting  forward  an  ingenious  policy.  He  asked  also 
for  an  interview;  and  the  interview  was  granted  by 
telegram — almost  to  his  surprise.  He  was  aware, 
however,  of  the  discontent  among  the  English  mem- 
bers of  the  Opposition,  and  of  the  wish  of  the  French 
members  to  find  a  good  compromise. 

He  had  a  hope  that  his  singular  position — ^the 
notoriety  which  his  father's  death  and  his  own  finan- 
cial disfranchisement  had  caused — would  be  a  fine 
card  in  his  favour.  He  was  not  mistaken.  His  let- 
ter arrived  at  Headquarters  when  there  were  difficul- 
ties concerning  three  -candidates  who  were  pressing 
their  claims.  Camao  Grier,  the  disinherited  son  of 
the  great  lumber-king,  who  had  fame  as  an  artist, 
spoke  French  as  though  it  were  his  native  tongue, 
was  an  element  of  sensation  which,  if  adroitly  used, 
could  be  of  great  service.    It  might  even  defeat 

207 


2o8 Carnac's  Folly 

Barode  Barouche.  In  the  first  place,  Camac  was 
young,  good-looking,  personable,  and  taking  in  his 
manner.  Barouche  was  old,  experienced,  with  hosts 
of  enemies  and  many  friends,  but  with  injurious 
egotism.  An  interview  was,  therefore,  arranged 
at  Headquarters. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  it  took  place,  Camac 's 
anguished  mother  went  with  him  to  the  little  railway 
station  of  Charlemont.  She  had  slept  little  the  night 
before;  her  mind  was  in  an  eddy  of  emotions.  It 
seemed  dreadful  that  Camac  should  fight  his  own 
father,  repeating  what  Fabian  had  done  in  another 
way.  Yet  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  there  was  a 
secret  joy.  Some  native  revolt  in  her  had  a  joy 
in  the  thought  that  the  son  might  extort  a  price  for 
her  long  sorrow  and  his  unknown  disgrace. 

As  she  had  listened  to  Barouche  at  the  meeting, 
she  realized  how  sincere  yet  insincere  he  was ;  how 
gifted  and  yet  how  ungracious  was  his  mind.  Her 
youth  was  over ;  long  pain,  and  regret  had  chastened 
her.  She  was  as  lonely  a  creature  as  ever  the  world 
knew;  violence  was  no  part  of  her  equipment;  and 
yet  terrible  memories  made  her  assent  to  this  new 
phase  of  Camac 's  life.  She  wondered  what  Barouche 
would  think.    There  was  some  ancient  touch  of  war 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate 209 

in  her  which  made  her  rejoice  that  after  long  years 
the  hammer  should  strike. 

Somehow  the  thing's  tremendous  possibilities 
thrilled  her.  Carnac  had  always  been  a  politician 
— always.  She  remembered  how,  when  he  was  a  boy, 
he  had  argued  with  John  Grier  on  national  matters, 
laid  down  the  law  with  the  assurance  of  an  under- 
graduate, and  invented  theories  impossible  of  public 
acceptance.  Yet  in  every  stand  he  had  taken,  there 
had  been  thought,  logic  and  reasoning,  wrongly  pre- 
mised, but  always  based  on  principles.  On  paper  he 
was  generally  right;  in  practise,  generally  wrong. 
His  buoyant  devotion  to  an  idea  was  an  inspiration 
and  a  tonic.  The  curious  thing  was  that,  while  still 
this  political  matter  was  hanging  fire,  he  painted 
with  elation.     That  was  the  curious  part  of  it  all. 

His  mother  knew  he  did  not  see  the  thousand 
little  things  which  made  public  life  so  weary;  that 
he  only  realized  the  big  elements  of  national  policy. 
She  understood  how  those  big  things  would  inspire 
the  artist  in  him.  For,  after  all,  there  was  the  spirit 
of  Art  in  framing  a  great  policy  which  would  benefit 
millions  in  the  present,  and  countless  millions  in  the 
future.    So,  at  the  railway  station,  as  they  waited 


2IO Carnac's  Folly 

for  the  train,  with  an  agitation  outwardly  controlled, 
she  said: 

*  *  The  men  who  have  fought  before,  will  want  to 
stand,  so  don't  be  surprised  if " 

"If  they  reject  me,  mother!"  interrupted 
Camac.  **No,  I  shan't  be  surprised,  but  I  feel  in 
my  bones  that  I'm  going  to  fight  Barode  Barouche 
into  the  last  comer  of  the  corral." 

** Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,  my  son.  Won't  the 
thing  that  prevents  your  marrying  Junia  be  a  danger 
in  this,  if  you  go  on?" 

Sullen  tragedy  came  into  his  face,  his  lips  set. 
The  sudden  paleness  of  his  cheek,  however,  was  lost 
in  a  smile. 

"Yes,  I've  thought  of  that;  but  if  it  has  to  come, 
better  it  should  come  now  than  later.  If  the  truth 
must  be  told,  I'll  tell  it— yes,  I'll  tell  it!" 

"Be  bold,  but  not  reckless,  Camac,"  his  mother 
urged. 

Just  then  the  whistling  train  approached.  She 
longed  to  put  a  hand  out  and  hold  him  back,  and 
yet  she  ached  to  let  him  go.  Yet  as  Camac  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  car,  a  cry  went  out  from  her  heart : 
*  *  My  son,  stay  with  me  here — don't  go ! "  That  was 
only  in  her  heart,  however ;  with  her  lips  she  said : 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate 2il 

*  *  Good  luck !  God  bless  you,  Carnac ! ' '  and  then  the 
train  rolled  away,  leaving  her  alone  in  the  bright, 
bountiful  morning. 

Before  the  day  was  done.  Headquarters  had 
accepted  Carnac,  in  part,  as  the  solution  of  their  own 
difficult  problem.  The  three  applicants  for  the  post 
each  hated  the  other;  but  all,  before  the  day  was 
over,  agreed  to  Carnac  as  an  effective  opponent 
of  Barouche. 

One  thing  seemed  clear — Carnac 's  policy  had  ele- 
ments of  seduction  appealing  to  the  selfishness  of  all 
sections,  and  he  had  an  eloquence  which  would  make 
Barouche  uneasy.  That  eloquence  was  shown  in  a 
speech  Carnac  made  in  the  late  evening  to  the  assem- 
bled executive.  He  only  spoke  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  but  it  was  long  enough  to  leave  upon  all  who 
heard  him  an  impression  of  power,  pertinacity,  pic- 
turesqueness  and  appeal.  He  might  make  mistakes, 
but  he  had  qualities  which  would  ride  over  errors 
with  success. 

''I'm  not  French,'*  he  said  at  last  in  his  speech, 
**but  I  used  to  think  and  write  in  French  as  though 
I'd  been  born  in  Normandy.  I'm  English  by  birth 
and  breeding,  but  I've  always  gone  to  French  schools 
and  to  a  French  University,  and  I  know  what  New 


212  Carnac's  Folly 


France  means.  I  stand  to  my  English  origin,  but 
I  want  to  see  the  French  develop  hei'e  as  they've 
developed  in  France,  alive  to  all  new  ideas,  dreaming 
good  dreams.  I  believe  that  Frenchmen  in  Canada 
can,  and  should,  be  an  inspiration  to  the  whole  popu- 
lation. Their  great  qualities  should  be  the  fibre  in 
the  body  of  public  opinion.  I  will  not  pander  to 
the  French;  I  will  not  be  the  slave  of  the  English; 
I  will  be  free,  and  I  hope  I  shall  be  successful  at 
the  polls." 

This  was  a  small  part  of  the  speech  which  caused 
much  enthusiasm,  and  was  the  beginning  of  a  move- 
ment, powerful  and  as  time  went  on,  impetuous. 

He  went  to  bed  with  the  blood  of  battle  throb- 
bing in  his  veins.  In  the  morning  he  had  a  reason- 
able joy  in  seeing  the  headlines  of  his  candidature  in 
the  papers.  At  first  he  was  almost  appalled,  for 
never  since  life  began  had  his  personality  been  so 
displayed.  It  seemed  absurd  that  before  he  had 
struck  a  blow  he  should  be  advertised  like  a  general 
in  the  field.  Yet  common-sense  told  him  that  in 
standing  against  Barouche,  he  became  important  in 
the  eyes  of  those  affected  by  Barouche 's  policy.  He 
had  had  luck,  and  it  was  for  him  to  justify  that 
luck.    Could  he  do  it?    His  first  thought,  however. 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate  213 

as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  headlines — he  flushed  with  ela- 
tion so  that  he  scarcely  saw — ^was  for  the  thing  itself. 
Before  him  there  flashed  a  face,  however,  which  at 
once  sobered  his  exaltation.    It  was  the  face  of  Junia. 

"I  wonder  what  she  will  think,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, with  a  little  perplexity. 

He  knew  in  his  heart  of  hearts  she  would  not 
think  it  incongruous  that  he,  an  artist,  should 
become  a  politician.  Good  laws  served  to  make  life 
beautiful,  good  pictures  ministered  to  beauty;  good 
laws  helped  to  tell  the  story  of  human  development ; 
good  sculpture  strengthened  the  soul,  good  laws 
made  life's  conveniences  greater,  enlarged  activity, 
lessened  the  friction  of  things  not  yet  adjusted ;  good 
laws  taught  their  makers  how  to  balance  things,  how 
to  make  new  principles  apply  without  disturbing 
old  rights ;  good  pictures  increased  the  well-balanced 
harmony  of  the  mind  of  the  people.  Junia  would 
understand  these  things.  As  he  sat  at  his  breakfast, 
with  the  newspaper  spread  against  the  teapot  and 
the  milk-pitcher,  he  felt  satisfied  he  had  done  the 
bold  and  right,  if  incomprehensible,  thing. 

But  in  another  hotel,  at  another  breakfast, 
another  man  read  of  Carnac 's  candidature  with  sick- 
ening surprise.    It  was  Barode  Barouche. 


214  Carnac's  Folly 


So,  after  twenty-seven  long  years,  this  was  to  be 
the  issue !  His  own  son,  whom  he  had  never  known, 
was  to  fight  him  at  the  polls!  Somehow,  the  day 
when  he  had  seen  Camac  and  his  mother  at  the 
political  meeting  had  given  him  new  emotions.  His 
wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  so  faithful  in  one  sense 
since  she  had  passed  into  the  asylum,  had  died,  and 
with  her  going,  a  new  field  of  life  seemed  to  open 
up  to  him.  She  had  died  almost  on  the  same  day 
as  John  Grier.  She  had  been  buried  secludedly, 
piteously,  and  he  had  gone  back  to  his  office  with  the 
thought  that  life  had  become  a  preposterous  freedom. 

So  it  was  that,  on  the  day  when  he  spoke  at  the 
political  meeting,  his  life's  tragedy  became  a  hammer 
beating  every  nerve  into  emotion.  He  was  like  one 
shipwrecked  who  strikes  out  with  a  swimmer's  will 
to  reach  his  goal.  All  at  once,  on  the  platform,  as 
he  spoke,  when  his  eyes  saw  the  faces  of  Camac  and 
his  mother  the  catastrophe  stunned  him  like  a  huge 
engine  of  war.  There  had  come  to  him  at  last  a 
sense  of  duty  where  Alma  Grier  was  concerned. 
She  was  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  he  was  fifty- 
nine;  she  was  a  widow  with  the  world's  goods;  she 
had  been  to  him  how  near  and  dear!  for  a  brief 
hour,  and  then — ^no  more.    He  knew  the  boy  was 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate 215 

his  son,  because  he  saw  his  own  face,  as  it  had  been 
in  his  youth,  though  his  mother's  look  was  also 
there — transforming,  illuminating. 

He  had  a  pang  as  he  saw  the  two  at  the  close 
of  his  meeting  filtering  out  into  the  great  retort  of 
the  world.  Then  it  was  that  he  had  the  impulse 
to  go  to  the  woman's  home,  express  his  sorrow,  and 
in  some  small  sense  wipe  out  his  wrong  by  offering 
her  marriage.     He  had  not  gone. 

He  knew  of  Camac's  success  in  the  world  of 
Art;  and  how  he  had  alienated  his  reputed  father 
by  an  independence  revolting  to  a  slave  of  conven- 
tion. He  had  even  bought,  not  from  Carnac,  but 
from  a  dealer,  two  of  Camac's  pictures  and  a  statue 
of  a  riverman.  Somehow  the  years  had  had  their 
their  way  with  him.  He  had  at  long  last  realized 
that  material  things  were  not  the  great  things  of  life, 
and  that  imagination,  however  productive,  should 
be  guided  by  uprightness  of  soul. 

One  thing  was  sure,  the  boy  had  never  been  told 
who  his  father  was.  That  Barouche  knew.  He  had 
the  useful  gift  of  reading  the  minds  of  people  in  their 
faces.  From  Camac's  face,  from  Carnac 's  mother's 
face,  had  come  to  him  the  real  story.  He  knew  that 
Alma  Grier  had  only  sinned  once  and  with  him.    In 


2i6 Carnac*s  Folly 

the  first  days  after  that  ill-starred  month,  he  had 
gone  to  her,  only  to  be  repelled  as  a  woman  can  repel, 
whose  soul  has  been  shocked,  whose  self-respect  has 
been  abused. 

It  had  been  as  though  she  thrust  out  arms  of  infi- 
nite length  to  push  him  away,  such  had  been  the 
storm  of  her  remorse,  such  the  revulsion  aggiinst  her- 
self and  him.  So  they  had  fallen  apart,  and  he  had 
seen  his  boy  grow  up  independent,  original,  wilful, 
capable — a  genius.  He  read  the  newspaper  reports 
of  what  had  happened  the  day  before  with  senses 
greatly  alive. 

After  all,  politics  was  unlike  everything  else.  It 
was  a  profession  recruited  from  all  others.  The 
making  of  laws  was  done  by  all  kinds  of  men.  One 
of  the  wisest  advisers  in  river-law  he  had  ever  known 
was  a  priest;  one  of  the  best  friends  of  the  legis- 
lation of  the  medical  profession  was  a  woman;  one 
of  the  bravest  Ministers  who  had  ever  quarelled 
with  and  conquered  his  colleagues  had  been  an  insur- 
ance agent ;  one  of  the  sanest  authorities  on  maritime 
law  had  been  a  man  with  a  greater  pride  in  his  verses 
than  in  his  practical  capacity ;  and  here  was  Carnac 
who  had  painted  pictures  and  made  statues  plunging 
into  politics  with  a  policy  as  ingenious  as  his  own. 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate 217 

and  as  capable  of  logical  presentation.  This  boy 
who  was  bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of.  his  flesh, 
meant  to  fight  him.  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed.  His  boy,  his  son,  meant  to  fight  him,  did 
he?  Well,  so  be  it!  He  got  to  his  feet,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room. 

*  *  God,  what  an  issue  this  I "  he  said.  '  *  It  would 
be  terrific,  if  he  won !  To  wipe  me  out  of  the  life  where 
I  have  flourished — what  a  triumph  for  him!  And 
he  would  not  know  how  great  the  triumph  would  be. 
She  has  not  told  him.  Yet  she  will  urge  him  on. 
Suppose  it  was  she  put  the  idea  into  his  head!'* 

Then  he  threw  back  his  head,  shaking  the  long 
brown  hair,  browner  than  Carnac 's,  from  his  fore- 
head. "Suppose  she  did  this  thing — she  who  was 
all  mine  for  one  brief  moment !     Suppose  she " 

Every  nerve  tingled;  every  drop  of  blood  beat 
hard  against  his  walls  of  flesh ;  every  vicious  element 
in  him  sprang  into  life. 

*  *  But  no — but  no,  she  would  not  do  it.  She  would 
not  teach  her  son  to  destroy  his  own  father.  But 
something  must  have  told  him  to  come  and  listen  to 
to  me,  to  challenge  me  in  his  own  mind,  and  then — 
then  this  thing!" 


2i8 Carnac's  Folly __^ 

He  stared  at  the  paper,  leaning  over  the  table, 
as  though  it  were  a  document  of  terror. 

*  'I  must  go  on :  I  must  uphold  the  policy  for  which 
I've  got  the  assent  of  the  Government."  Suddenly 
his  hands  clenched.  **I  will  beat  him.  He  shall 
not  bring  me  to  thei  dust.  I  gave  him  life,  and  he 
shall  not  take  my  life  from  me.  He's  at  the  begin- 
ning; I'm  going  towards  the  end.  I  wronged  his 
mother — ^yes,  I  wronged  him  too!  I  wronged  them 
both,  but  he  does  not  know  he's  wrouged.  He'll  live 
his  own  life;  he  has  lived  it " 

There  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  Presently  it 
opened  and  a  servant  came  in.  He  had  in  his  hand  a 
half-dozen  telegrams. 

**A11  about  the  man  that's  going  to  fight  you,  I 
expect,  m'sieu',"  said  the  servant  as  he  handed 
the  telegrams. 

Barode  Baro^uche  did  not  reply,  but  nodded  a 
little  scornfully. 

**A  woman  has  called,"  continued  the  servant. 
**  She  wants  to  see  you,  m'sieu'.  It's  very  important, 
she  says." 

Barouche  shook  his  head  in  negation.  *'No, 
Gaspard. ' ' 

**It  ain't  one  of  the  usual  kind,  I  think,  m'sieu'," 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate  219 

protested  Gaspard.     "It's  about  the  election.     It's 

got  something  to  do  with  that "  he  pointed  to 

the  newspaper  propped  against  the  teapot. 

'  *  It 's  about  that,  is  it  ?    Well,  what  about  that  ? ' ' 

He  eyed  the  servant  as  though  to  see  whether 
the  woman  had  given  any  information. 

"I  don't  know.  She  didn't  tell  me.  She's  got 
a  mind  of  her  own.  She's  even  handsome,  and  she's 
well-dressed.  All  she  said  was:  'Tell  m'sieu'  I  want 
to  see  him.  It's  about  the  election — about  Mr. 
Grier.'  " 

Barode  Barouche 's  heart  stopped.  Something 
about  Carnac  Grier — something  about  the  election 
— and  a  woman!  He  kept  a  hand  on  himself.  It 
must  not  be  seen  that  he  was  in  any  way  moved. 

"Is  she  English?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "She's  French, 
m'sieu'." 

"You  think  I  ought  to  see  her,  Gaspard?" 
said  Barouche. 

*  *  Sure, ' '  was  the  confident  reply.  '  *  I  guess  she 's 
out  against  whoever 's  against  you. ' ' 

"You  never  saw  her  before." 

*  *  Not  to  my  sense. ' ' 

"But  I  haven't  finished  my  breakfast." 


220 Carnac's  Folly 

**"Well,  if  it's  anytMng  important  that'll  help  you, 
m'sieu*.  It's  like  whittling.  If  you  can  do  things 
with  your  hands  while  you're,  talking  and  thinking, 
it's  a  great  help.  You  go  on  eating.  I'll  show 
her  up." 

Barouche  smiled  maliciously.  ''Well,  show  her 
up,  Gaspard." 

The  servant  laughed.  "Perhaps  she'll  show 
herself  up  after  I  show  her  in,"  he  said,  and  he 
went  out  hastily. 

Presently  the  do,or , opened  again,  and  Gaspard 
stepped  inside. 

**A  lady  to  see  you,  m'sieu',"  he  said. 

Barouche  rose  from  the  table,  but  he  did  not  hold 
out  his  hand.  The  woman  was  young,  good  looking, 
she  seemed  intelligent.  There  was  also  a  latent 
cruelty  in  her  face  which  only  a  student  of  human 
nature  could  have  seen  quickly.  She  was  a  woman 
with  a  grievance — that  was  sure.  He  knew  the  pas- 
sionate excitement,  fairly  well  controlled ;  he  saw  her 
bitterness  at  a  glance.    He  motioned  her  to  a  chair. 

"It's  an  early  call,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  Smil- 
ing was  one  of  his  serviceable  assets;  it  was  said 
no  man  could  so  palaver  the  public  with  his  cheer- 
ful good-nature. 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate 221 

"Yes,  it's  an  early  call,"  she  replied,  ''but  I  wish 
not  to  wait  till  you  go  to  your  office.  I  wanted  you 
to  know  something.  It  has  to  do;  with  Mr.  Carnac 
Grier. ' ' 

''Oh,  that— eh!" 

''It's  something  you've  got  to  know.  If  I  give 
you  the  sure  means  to  win  your  election,  it  would 
be  worth  while — eh?" 

The  beating  of  Barouche 's  heart  was  hard,  but 
nothing  showed  in  his  face.     There  he  had  control. 

"I  like  people  who  know  their  own  minds,"  he 
said,  "but  I  don't  believe  anything  till  I  study 
what  I  hear.    Is  it  something  to  injure  Mr.  Grier?" 

"If  a  married  man  went  about  as  a  single  man 
and  stood  up  for  Parliament  against  you,  don't  you 
think  you  could  spoil  him?" 

For  a  moment  Barouche  was  silent.  Here  was 
an  impeachment  of  his  own  son,  but  this  son  was  out 
to  bring  his  own  father  to  the  ground.  There  were 
two  ways  to  look  at  it.  There  was  the  son's  point 
of  view,  and  there  was  his  own.  If  he  loved  his  son 
he  ought  to  know  the  thing  that  threatened  him ;  if  he 
hated  his  son  he  ought  to  know.  So,  after  a 
moment's  study  of  the  face  with  the  fiery  eyes  and  a 


222 Carnac's  Folly 

complexion  like  roses  touched  with  frost,  he 
said  slowly: 

"Well,  have  I  the  hononr  of  addressing  Camac 
Grier's  wife?" 

Barouche  had  had  many  rewards  in  his  life,  but 
the  sweetest  reward  of  all  was  now  his  own.  As 
events  proved,  he  had  taken  a  course  which,  if  he 
cared  for  his  son,  was  for  that  son's  well-being,  and 
if  he  cared  for  himself  most,  was  essential  to  his  own 
well-being. 

Belief  crossed  the  woman's  face.  **I'll  tell  you 
everything,"  she  said. 

Then  Luzanne  told  her  story,  avoiding  the  fact 
that  Camac  had  been  tricked  into  the  marriage.  At 
last  she  said:  "Now  I've  come  here  to  make  him 
acknowledge  me.  He's  ruined  my  life,  broken  my 
hopes,  and " 

"Broken  your  hopes!"  interrupted  Barode 
B  ar  ouche.    *  *  How  is  that  I ' ' 

"I  might  have  married  some  one  else.  I  could 
have  married  some  one  else." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?  There's  the  Divorce 
Court.    What's  to  prevent  it?" 

"You  ask  me  that — you  a  Frenchman  and  a 


Carnac  becomes  a  Candidate  223 

Roman  Catholic  I  I  'm  French.  I  was  bom  in  Paris. '  * 

**When  will  yon  let  me  see  yonr  papers?" 

**When  do  yon  want  to  see  them?" 

*' To-day — ^if  possible  torday,"  he  answered. 
Then  he  held  her  eyes.  **To  whom  else  here  have 
you  told  this  story?" 

"No  on&— no  one.  I  only  came  last  night,  and 
when  I  took  np  the  paper  this  morning,  I  saw.  Then 
I  found  out  where  you  lived,  and  here  I  am,  Bien  sur, 
I'm  here  under  my  maiden  name,  Ma'm'selle 
Luzanne  Larue." 

^'That's  right.  That's  right.  Now,  until  we 
meet  again,  don't  speak  of  this  to  anyone.  Will  you 
give  me  your  word?'* 

** Absolutely,"  she  said,  and  there  was  revenge 
and  passion  in  her  eyes.  Suddenly  a  strange  expres- 
sion crept  over  her  face.    She  was  puzzled. 

"There's  something  of  him  about  you,"  she  said, 
and  her  forehead  gathered.  "There's  some  look! 
Well,  there  it  is,  but  it's  something — ^I  don't 
know  what." 

A  moment  later  she  was  gone.  As  the  door 
closed,  he  stretched  his  hands  above  his  head. 

'*Nom  de  Dieul  what  a  situation  I"  he  remarked. 


Chapter  XX  Junta  and  Tarboe  hear  the  Neivs 

TO  most  people  Camac's  candidature  was  a  sur- 
prise; to  some  it  was  a  bewilderment,  and  to 
one  or  two  it  was  a  shock.  To  the  second  class 
belonged  Fabian  Grier  and  his  wife ;  to  the  third  class 
belonged  Luke  Tarboe.  Only  one  person  seemed  to 
imderstand  it — by  intuition:  Junia. 

Somehow,  nothing  Camac  did  changed  Junia 's 
views  of  him,  or  surprised  her,  though  he  made 
her  indignant  often  enough.  To  her  mind,  however, 
in  the  big  things,  his  actions  always  had  reasonable- 
ness. She  had  never  felt  his  artist^lif e  was  to  be 
the  only  note  of  his  career. 

When,  therefore,  in  the  West  she  read  a  telegram 
in  a  newspaper,  announcing  his  candidature,  she 
guessed  the  suddenness  of  his  decision.  When  she 
read  it,  she  spread  the  paper  on  the  table,  smoothed 
it  as  though  it  were  a  beautiful  piece  of  linen,  then 
she  stretched  out  her  hands  in  happy  benediction. 
Like  most  of  her  sex,  she  loved  the  thrill  of  warfare. 
There  flashed  the  feeling,  however,  that  it  would  be 
finer  sport  if  Camac  and  Tarboe  were  to  be  at  war, 
224 


Junta  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News  225 

instead  of  Camac  and  Barouche.  It  was  curious 
she  never  thought  of  Carnac  but  the  other  man  came 
throbbing  into  sight — the  millionaire,  for  he  was 
that  now. 

In  one  way,  this  last  move  of  Carnac 's  had  the 
elements  of  a  master-stroke.  She  knew  how  strange 
it  would  seem  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  yet  it  did 
not  seem  strange  to  her.  No  man  she  had  ever  seen 
had  been  so  at  home  in  the  world  of  men,  and  also  at 
home  in  the  secluded  field  of  the  chisel  and  the  brush 
as  Carnac. 

She  took  the  newspaper  over  to  her  aunt,  hold- 
ing it  up.  The  big  headlines  showed  like  semaphores 
on  the  page.  As  the  graceful  figure  of  Junia  drew 
to  her  aunt — ^her  slim  feet,  in  the  brown,  well-polished 
boots,  the  long,  full  neck,  and  then  the  chin,  Grecian, 
shapely  and  firm,  the  straight,  sensitive  nose,  the 
wonderful  eyes  under  the  well-cut,  broad  forehead, 
with  the  brown  hair,  covering  it  like  a  canopy — the 
old  lady  reached  out  and  wound  her  arms  round  the 
lissome  figure.  Situated  so,  she  read  the  telegram, 
and  then  the  old  arms  gripped  her  tighter. 

Presently,  the  whistle  of  a  train  sounded.  The 
aunt  stretched  out  an  approving  finger  to  the  sound. 
IS 


226  Carnac's  Folly .^.,^_^ 

She  realized  that  the  figure  round  which  her  arms 
hung  trembled,  for  it  was  the  ** through"  daily  train 
for  Montreal. 

"I'm  going  back  at  once,  aunty,"  Junia  said. 
**Well,  I'm  jiggered!" 

These  were  Tarboe's  words  when  Carnac's  can- 
didature came  first  to  him  in  the  press. 

"He's  'broke'  out  in  a  new  place,"  he  added. 
Tarboe  loved  the  spectacular,  and  this  was  indeed 
spectacular.  Yet  he  had  not  the  mental  vision  of 
Junia  who  saw  how  close,  in  one  intimate  sense,  was 
the  relation  between  the  artist  life  and  the  political 
life.  To  him  it  was  a  gigantic  break  from  a  green 
pasture  into  a  red  field  of  war.  To  her,  it  was 
a  resolution  which,  in  anyone  else's  life,  would  have 
seemed  abnormal;  inCamac's  life  it  had  naturalness. 
Tarboe  had  been  for  a  few;  months  only  the 
reputed  owner  of  the  great  business,  and  he  had 
paid  a  big  price  for  his  headship  in  the  weighty 
responsibility,  the  strain  of  control ;  but  it  had  got 
into  his  blood,  and  he  felt  life  would  not  be  easy 
without  it  now. 

Besides,  there  was  Junia.    To  him  she  was  the 
one  being  in  the  world  worth  struggling  for;  the 


Junta  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News  227 

bird  to  be  caught  on  the  wing,  or  coaxed  into  the 
nest,  or  snared  into  the  net;  and  two  of  the  three 
things  he  had  tried  without  avail.  The  third — the 
snaring?  He  would  not  stop  at  that,  if  it  would 
bring  him  what  he  wanted.  How  to  snare  her  I  He 
surveyed  himself  in  the  mirror. 

"A  great  hulking  figure  like  that  I"  he  said  in 
disapproval.  ''All  bone  and  muscle  and  flesh  and 
physical  bombast  1  It  wouldn't  weigh  with  her. 
She's  toQ  fine.  It  isn't  the  animal  in  a  man  she 
likes.  It's  what  he  can  do,  and  what  he  is,  and 
where  he's  going." 

Then  he  thought  of  Camac's  new  outburst,  and 
his  veins  ran  cold.  *  *  She  '11  like  that — but  yes,  she  '11 
like  that:  and  if  he  succeeds  she'll  think  he's  great. 
"Well,  she'd  be  right.  He'll  beat  Barouche.  He's 
young  and  brave,  careless  and  daring.  Now  where 
am  I  in  this  fight  ?  I  belong  to  Barouche 's  party  and 
my  vote  ought  to  go  for  him." 

For  some  minutes  he  sat  in  profound  thought. 
What  part  should  he  play?  He  liked  Carnac,  he 
owed  him  a  debt  which  he  could  never  repay.  Carnac 
had  saved  him  from  killing  Denzil.  If  that  had  hap- 
pened, he  himself  might  have  gone  to  the  gallows. 


228  Carnac's  Folly 

He  decided.    Sitting  down,  he  wrote  Camac  the 
following  letter: — 

Dear  Carnac  Grieb — 

I  see  you're  beginning  a  new  work.  You  now 
belong  to  a  party  that  I  am  opposed  to,  but  that 
doesn't  prevent  me  offering  you  support.  It's  not 
your  general  policy  I  support,  but  it  is  you,  the  son 
of  your  father,  that  I  meau  to  work  for.  If  you  want 
financial  help  for  your  campaign — or  after  it  is  over 
— come  and  get  it  here — ten  thousand  or  more  if 
you  wish.  Your  father  if  he  knew — and  perhaps  he 
does  know — would  be  pleased  that  you,  who  could 
not  be  a  man  of  business  in  his  world,  are  become  a 
man  of  business  in  the  bigger  world  of  law-making. 
You  may  be  right  or  wrong  in  that  policy,  but  that 
don't  weigh  with^  me.  You've  taken  on  as  big  a 
job  as  ever  your  father  did.  What's  the  use  of 
working  if  you  don't  try  to  do  the  big  thing  that 
means  a  lot  to  people  outside  yourself!  If  you 
make  new  good  laws,  if  you  do  something  for  the 
world  that's  wonderful,  it's  as  much  as  your  father 
did,  or,  if  he  was  alive,  could  do  now.  Whatever 
there  is  here  is  yours  to  use.  When  you  come  back 
here  to  play  your  part,  you'll  make  it  a  success — the 


Junta  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News  229 

whole  blessed  thing.  I  don't  wish  you  were  here 
now,  except  that  it's  yonrs — all  of  it — ^but  I  wish 
you  to  beat  Barode  Barouche. 

"Yours  to  the  knife, 

**LuKE  Takboe." 

He  read  the  letter  through,  and  coming  to  the 
words,  "When  you  come  back  here  to  play  your 
part,  you'll  make  it  a  success — the  whole  blessed 
thing,"  he  paused,  reflecting  ...  He  wondered 
what  Camac  would  think  the  words  meant,  and  he 
felt  it  was  bold,  and,  maybe,  dangerous  play;  but 
it  was  not  more  dangerous  than  facts  he  had  dealt 
with  often  in  the  last  two  years.  He  would  let  it 
stand,  that  phrase  of  the  hidden  meaning.  He  did 
not  post  the  letter  yet. 

Four  days  later  he  put  on  his  wide-brimmed 
panama  hat  and  went  out  into  the  street  leading  to 
the  centre  of  the  city.  There  was  trouble  in  the 
river  reaches  between  his  men  and  those  of  Belloc- 
Grier,  and  he  was  keeping  an  appointment  with 
Belloc  at  Fabian  Grier's  oflSce,  where  several  such 
meetings  had  taken  place. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  when  he  saw  a 
sprightly  figure  in  light-brown  linen,  cutting  into  his 


230  Carnac's  Folly 

street  from  a  cross-road.  He  had  not  seen  that  fig- 
ure for  months — scarcely  since  John  Grier's  death, 
and  his  heart  thumped  in  his  breast.  It  was  Junia, 
How  would  she  greet  him? 

A  moment  later  he  met  her.  Raising  his  hat,  he 
said:  "Back  to  the  firing-line,  Miss  Shale!  It'll 
make  a  big  difference  to  every  one  concerned." 

**Are  you  then  concerned!"  she  asked  with  a 
faint  smile. 

**One  of  the  most  concerned,"  he  answered  with 
a  smile  not  so  composed,  as  her  own.  ''It's  the 
honour  of  the  name  that's  at  stake." 

"You  want  to  ruin  Mr.  Grier's  chances  in 
the  fight?" 

"I  didn't  say  that.  I  said,  'the  honour  of  the 
name,'  and  the  name  of  my  firm  is  '  Grier's  Company 
of  Lumbermen. '  So  I  'm  in  it  with  all  my  might,  and 
here's  a  letter — ^I  haven't  posted  it  yet — saying  to 
Camac  Grier  where  I  stand.  Will  you  read  it? 
There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't."  He  tore 
open  the  envelope  and  took  the  letter  out. 

Junia  took  it,  after  hesitation,  and  read  it  till 
she  came  to  the  sentence  about  Camac  returning 
to  the  business.    She  looked  up,  startled. 


Junia  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News  231 

''What  does  that  mean?"  she  asked,  pointing 
to  the  elusive  sentence. 

*  *  He  might  want  to  come  into  the  business  some 
day,  and  I'll  give  him  his  chance.  Nothing  more 
than  that," 

*' Nothing  more  than  that!"  she  said  cynically. 
"It's  bravely  said,  but  how  can  he  be  a  partner 
if  he  can't  huy  the  shares?" 

*  *  That 's  a  matter  to  be  thought  out, ' '  he  answered 
with  a  queer  twist  to  his  mouth. 

**I  see  you've  offered  to  help  him  with  cash  for 
the  election,"  she  said,  handing  back  the  letter. 

"I  felt  it  had  to  be  done.  Politics  are  expen- 
sive— they  sap  the  purse.     That's  why." 

"You  never  thought  of  giving  him  an  income 
which  would  compensate  a  little  for  what  his  father 
failed  to  do  for  him? ' ' 

There  was  asperity  in  her  tone. 

"He  woiuldn't  take  from  me  what  his  father' 
didn't  give  him."  Suddenly  an  idea  seized  him. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you're  a  friend  of  the 
Griers,  why  don't  you  help  keep  things  straight  be- 
tween the  two  concerns?  You  could  do  it.  You  have 
the  art  of  getting  your  own  way.  I've  noticed  that." 

"So  you'd  like  me  to  persuade  Fabian  Grier  to 


232  Carnac's  Folly 

influence  Belloc,  because  I'd  make  things  easy  for 
you!"  she  said  briskly.  **Do  you  forget  I've 
known  Fabian  since  I  was  a  baby,  that  my  sister  is 
his  wife,  and  that  his  interests  are  near  to  me?" 

He  did  not  knuckle  down.  '*I  think  it  would  be 
helping  Fabian's  interests.  Belloc  and  Fabian 
Grier  are  generally  in  the  wrong,  and  to  keep  them 
right  would  be  good  business-policy.  When  I've 
trouble  with  Belloc's  firm  it's  because  they  act  like 
dogs  in  the  manger.     They  seem  to  hate  me  to  live." 

She  laughed — a  buoyant,  scornful  laugh.  '*So 
all  the  fault  is  in  Belloc  and  Fabian,  is  it?"  She 
was  impressed  enormously  by  his  sangfroid  and  will 
to  rule  the  roost.  *'I  think  you're  clever,  and  that 
you've  got  plenty  of  horse-sense,  as  they  say  in 
the  West,  but  you'll  be  beaten  in  the  end.  How 
does  it  feel" — she  asked  it  with  provoking  candour 
**to  be  the  boss  of  big  things?" 

**I  know  I'm  always  settling  troubles  my  busi- 
ness foes  make  for  me.  I  have  to  settle  one  of 
them  now,  and  I'm  glad  I've  met  you,  for  you  can 
help  me.  I  want  some  new  river-rules  made.  If 
Belloc  and  Grier '11  agree  to  them,  we'll  do  away  with 
this  constant  trouble  between  our  gangs." 

**  And  you'd  like  me  to  help  you!" 


Junta  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News  233 

He  smiled  a  big  rivennan's  smile  down  at  her, 
full  of  good-humour  and  audacity. 

"If  you  could  make  it  clear  to  Fabian  that  all 
I'm  after  is  peace  on  the  river,  it'd  do  a  lot  of  good." 

''Well,  do  you  know,"  she  said  demurely,  **I 
don't  think  I'll  take  a  hand  in  this  game,  chiefly 
because "  she  paused. 

"Yes:  chiefly  because " 

"Because  you'll  get  your  own  way  without  help. 
You  get  everything  you  want,"  she  added  with  a 
little  savage  comment. 

A  flood  of  feeling  came  into  his  eyes,  his  head 
jerked  like  that  of  a  bull-moose.  "No,  I  don't  get 
everything  I  want.  The  thing  I  want  most  in  the 
world  doesn't  come  to  me.'*  His  voice  grew  emo- 
tional. She  knew  what  he  was  trying  to  say,  and 
as  the  idea  was  not  new  she  kept  composure.  "I'm 
not  as  lucky  as  you  think  me,"  he  added. 

"You're  pretty  lucky.  You've  done  it  all  as 
easy  as  clasping  your  fingers.  If  I  had  your  luck 
!"  she  paused. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  but  if  I  could  reach 
out  and  touch  you  at  any  time,  as  it  were,  I  think 
it'd  bring  me  permanent  good  luck.  You'U  find  out 
one  day  that  my  luck  is  only  a  bubble,  the  prick  of 


234  Carnac's  Folly 

a  pin '11  destroy.  I  don't  misunderstand  it.  I've 
been  left  John  Grier's  business  by  Grier  himself, 
and  he's  got  a  son  that  ought  to  have  it,  and  maybe 
will  have  it,  when  the  time  is  ripe." 

Suddenly  an  angry  hand  flashed  out  towards 
him.  ''When  the  time  is  ripe!  Dees  that  mean, 
when  you've  made  all  you  want,  you'll  give  up  to 
Camac  what  isn't  yours  but  his?  Why  don't  you 
do  it  now?" 

''Well,  because  in  the  first  place,  I  like  my  job 
and  he  doesn't  want  it;  in  the  second  place,  I  prom- 
ised his  father  I'd  run  the  business  as  he  wished 
it  run;  and  in  the  third  place,  Camac  wouldn't  know; 
how  to  use  the  income  the  business  brings." 

She  laughed  in  a  mocking,  challenging  way. 
"Was  there  ever  a  man  didn't  know  how  to  use  an 
income  no  matter  how  big  it  was  I  You're  talking 
engimas,  and  I  think  we'd  better  say  good-bye. 
Your  way  to  the  Belloc  offices  is  down  that  street.'* 
She  pointed. 

"And  you  won't  help  mef  You  won't  say  a 
word  to  Fabian?" 

She  shrugged  a  shoulder.  "If  I  were  a  man 
like  you,  who's  so  big,  so  lucky,  and  so  dominant, 


Junia  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News  235 

I  wouldn't  ask  a  woman  to  help  me.  I'd  do  the  job 
myself.  I'd  keep  faith  with  my  reputation.  But 
there's  one  nice  thing  about  you:  you're  going  to 
help  Camac  to  beat  Barode  Barouche.  You've 
made  a  gallant  offer.  If  you'd  gone  against  him, 
if  you'd  played  Barouche 's  game,  I " 

The  indignation  which  came  to  her  face  suddenly 
fled,  and  she  said:  "Honestly,  I'd  never  speak  to 
you  again,  and  I  always  keep  my  word.  Camac '11 
see  it  through.  He's  a  man  of  mark,  Mr.  Tarboe, 
and  he'll  be  Prime  Minister  of  the  whole  country 
one  day.    I  don't  think  you'll  like  it." 

**  You  hit  hard,  but  if  I  hadn't  taken  the  business, 
Camac  Grier  wouldn't  have  got  it.  If  it  hadn't  been 
me,  it  would  have  been  some  one  else." 

**Well,  why  don't  you  live  like  a  rich  man  and 
not  like  a  foreman?" 

**I've  been  too  busy  to  change  my  mode  of  liv- 
ing. I  only  want  enough  to  eat  and  drink  and  wear, 
and  that's  not  costly."  Suddenly  an  idea  came  to 
him.  ''Now,  if  that  business  had  been  left  to  you, 
you'd  be  building  a  stone  house  somewhere;  and 
you'd  have  horses  and  carriages,  and  lots  of  ser- 
vants, and  you'd  swing  along  like  a  pretty  coloured 
bird  in  the  spring  -time,  wouldn't  you?" 


236  Carnacs  Folly 


"If  I  had  wealth,  I'd  make  it  my  servant.  I*d 
give  it  its  chance,  but  as  I  haven't  got  it,  I  live  as  I 
do — ^poor  and  unknown." 

"Not  unknown.  See,  you  could  control  what 
belonged  to  John  Grier,  if  you  would.  I  need  some 
ojie  to  show  me  how  to  spend  the  money  coming 
from  the  business.  What  is  wealth  unless  you  buy 
things  that  give  pleasure  to  life  ?    Do  you  know ' ' 

He  got  no  further.  "I  don't  know  anything 
you're  trying  to  tell  me,  and  anyhow  this  is  not 
the  place " 

With  that  she  hastened  from  him  up  the  street. 
Tarboe  had  a  pang,  and  yet  her  very  last  words 
gave  him  hope.  *  *  I  may  be  a  bit  sharp  in  business, ' ' 
he  said  to  himself,  but  I  certainly  am  a  fool  in  mat- 
ters of  the  heart.  Yet  what  she  said  at  last  had 
something  in  it  for  me.  Every  woman  has  an  idea 
where  a  man  ought  to  make  love  to  her,  and  this 
open  road  certainly  ain't  the  place.  If  Camac  wins 
this  game  with  Barouche  I  don't  know  where  I'll 
be  with  her — maybe  I'm  a  fool  to  help  him."  He 
turned  the  letter  over  and  over  in  his  hand.  "No, 
I'm  not.    I  ought  to  do  it  and  I  will. " 

Then  he  fell  to  brooding.  He  remembered  about 
the  second  hidden  will.    There  came  upon  him  a 


Junta  and  Tarboe  hear  the  News 237 

wild  wish  to  destroy  it.  He  loved  controlling  John 
Grier's  business.  Never  had  anything  absorbed 
him  so.  Life  seemed  a  new  thing.  The  idea  of  dis- 
appearing from  the  place  where,  with  a  stroke  of 
his  fingers,  he  moved  five  thousand  men,  or  swept 
a  forest  into  the  great  river,  or  touched  a  bell  which 
set  going  a  saw-mill  with  its  many  cross-cut  saws, 
or  filled  a  ship  to  take  the  pine,  cedar,  maple,  ash 
or  elm  boards  to  Europe,  or  to  the  United  States, 
was  terrible  to  him.  He  loved  the  smell  of  the  fresh- 
cut  wood.  The  odour  of  the  sawdust  as  he  passed 
through  a  mill  was  sweeter  than  a  million  bunches  of 
violets.  Many  a  time  he  had  caught  up  a  handful 
of  the  damp  dust  and  smelt  it,  as  an  expert  gardener 
would  crumble  the  fallen  flowers  of  a  fruit-tree  and 
sniff  the  sweet  perfume.  To  be  master  of  one  of 
the  greatest  enterprises  of  the  New  World  for  three 
years,  and  then  to  disappear !  He  felt  he  could  not 
do  it. 

His  feelings  shook  his  big  frame.  The  love  of  a 
woman  troubled  his  spirit.  Suppose  the  will  were 
declared  and  the  girl  was  still  free,  what  would 
she  do? 

As  he  set  foot  in  the  office  of  the  firm  of  Belloc, 
however,  he  steeled  himself  to  composure. 


238  Carnac's  Folly    ^ 

His  task  well  accomplished,  he  went  back  to  his 
own  office,  and  spent  the  day  like  a  racehorse  under 
the  lash,  restive,  defiant,  and  reckless.  When  night 
and  the  shadows  came,  he  sat  alone  in  his  office  with 
drawn  blinds,  brooding,  wondering. 


Chapter  XXI  The  Secret  Meeting 

AS  election  affairs  progressed,  Mrs.  Grier  Kept 
».  withdrawn  from  public  ways.  She  did  not 
seek  supporters  for  her  son.  As  the  weeks  went  on, 
the  strain  became  intense.  Her  eyes  were  aflame 
with  excitement,  but  she  grew  thinner,  until  at  last 
she  was  like  a  ghost  haunting  f  amihar  scenes.  Once, 
and  once  only,  did  she  have  touch  with  Barode 
Barouche  since  the  agitation  began.  This  was  how 
it  happened: 

Carnac  was  at  Ottawa,  and  she  was  alone,  in  the 
late  evening.  As  she  sat  sewing,  she  heard  a  knock 
at  the  front  door.  Her  heart  stood  still.  It  was  a 
knock  she  had  not  heard  for  over  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  but  it  had  an  unforgettable  touch.  She 
waited  a  moment,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  shining 
with  tortured  memory.  She  waited  for  the  servant 
to  answer  the  knock,  but  presently  she  realized  that 
the  servant  probably  had  not  heard.  Laying  down 
her  work,  she  passed  into  the  front  hall.  There  for 
an  instant  she  paused,  then  opened  the  door. 

It  was  Barode  Barouche.     Then  the  memory  of  a 

239 


240 Carnac's  Folly 

suininer  like  a  terrible  dream  shook  her.  She  trem- 
bled. Some  old  quiver  of  the  dead  days  swept 
through  her.  How  distant  and  how  bad  it  all  was ! 
For  one  instant  the  old  thrill  repeated  itself  and  then 
was  gone — ^f  or  ever. 

**What  is  it  you  wish  here!"  she  asked. 

"Will  you  not  shut  the  door?"  he  responded,  for 
her  fingers  were  on  the  handle.  *'I  cannot  speak 
with  the  night  looking  in.  Won't  you  ask  me  to 
your  sitting-room?    I'm  not  a  robber  or  a  rogue." 

Slowly  she  closed  the  door.  Then  she  turned, 
and,  in  the  dim  light  she  said: 

"But  you  are  both  a  robber  and  a  rogue.*' 
He  did  not  answer  until  they  had  entered  the  sitting- 
room. 

"I  gave  you  that  which  is  out  against  me  now. 
Is  he  not  brilliant,  capable  and  courageous?" 

There  was  in  her  face  a  stem  duty. 

"It  was  Fate,  monsieur.  When  he  and  I  went 
to  your  political  meeting  at  Carlemont  it  had  no 
purpose.  No  blush  came  to  his  cheek,  because  he 
did  not  know  who  his  father  is.  No  one  in  the 
world  knows — no  one  except  myself,  that  must  suf- 
fer to  the  end.  Your  speech  roused  in  him  the  native 
public  sense,  the  ancient  fire  of  the  people  from  whom 


The  Secret  Meeting 241 

he  did  not  know  he  came.  His  origin  has  been  his 
bane  from  the  start.  He  did  not  know  why  the  man 
he  thought  his  father  seemed  almost  a  stranger  to 
him.  He  did  not  understand,  and  so  they  fell  apart. 
Yet  John  Grier  would  have  given  more  than  he  had 
to  win  the  boy  to  himself.  Do  you  ever  think  what 
the  boy  must  have  suffered?  He  does  not  know. 
Only  you  and  I  know!"  She  paused. 

He  thrust  out  a  hand  as  though  to  stay  her 
speech,  but  she  went  on  again : 

**Go  away  from  me.    You  have  spoiled  my  life; 

you  have  spoiled  my  boy's  life,  and  now  he  fights 

you.    I  give  him  no  help  save  in  one  direction.    I 

give  to  him  something  his  reputed  father  withheld 

from  him.     Don't  you  think  it  a  strange  thing" — 

her  voice  was  thick  with  feeling — ''that  he  never 

could  bear  to  take  money  from  John  Grier,  and 

that,  even  as  a  child,  gifts  seemed  to  trouble  him. 

I  think  he  wanted  to  give  back  again  all  that  John 

Grier  had  ever  paid  out  to  him  or  for  him;  and 

now,  at  last,  he  fights  the  man  who  gave  him  birth  I 

I  wanted  to  tell  John  Grier  all,  but  I  did  not,  because, 

I  knew  it  would  spoil  his  life  and  my  boy's  life.    It 

was  nothing  to  me  whether  I  lived  or  died.    But  I 
16 


242 Carnac's  Folly 

could  not  bear  Camac  should  know.  He  was  too 
noble  to  have  his  life  spoiled. ' ' 

Barode  Barouche  drew  himself  together.  Here 
was  a  deep,  significant  problem,  a  situation  that 
needed  more  expert  handling  than  he  had  ever 
shown.  As  he  stood  by  the  table,  the  dim  light 
throwing  haggard  reflections  on  her  face,  he  had  a 
feeling  that  she  was  more  than  normal.  He  saw 
her  greater  than  he  had  ever  imagined  her.  Some- 
thing in  him  revolted  at  a  war  between  his  own  son 
and  himself.  Also,  he  wanted  to  tell  her  of  the 
danger  in  which  Camac  was — ^how  Luzanne  had 
come,  and  was  hidden  away  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
city,  waiting  for  the  moment  when  the  man  who 
rejected  her  should  be  sacrificed. 

Now  that  Barouche  was  face  to  face  with  Alma 
Grier,  however,  he  felt  the  prodigious  nature  of  his 
task.  In  all  the  years  he  had  taken  no  chance  to 
pay  tribute  to  the  woman  who,  in  a  real  sense,  had 
been  his  mistress  of  body  and  mind  for  one  short 
term  of  life,  and  who  once,  and  once  only,  had 
yielded  to  him.  They  were  both  advanced  in  years, 
and  Life  and  Time  had  taken  toll.  She  was  haggard, 
yet  beautiful  in  a  wan  way.    He  did  not  believe  the 


The  Secret  Meeting 243 

vanished  years  had  placed  between  them  an  impass- 
able barrier. 

He  put  his  chances  to  the  test  at  last. 
"Yes,  I  know — ^I  understand.  You  remained  silent 
because  your  nature  was  too  generous  to  injure  any- 
one. Down  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  cantankerous, 
tyrannical  as  he  was,  John  Grier  loved  you,  and  I 
loved  you  also. ' ' 

She  made  a  protest  of  her  hand.  *  *  Oh,  no  I  You 
never  knew  what  love  was — ^never!  You  had  pas- 
sion, you  had  hunger  of  thei  body,  but  of  love  you 
did  not  know.  I  know  you,  Barode  Barouche.  You 
have  no  heart,  you  have  only  sentiment  and  imagina- 
tion. No — no,  you  could  not  be  true.  You  could 
never  know  how." 

Suddenly  a  tempest  of  fire  seemed  to  bum  in 
his  eyes,  in  his  whole  being.  His  face  flushed:  his 
eyes  gleamed ;  his  hands  were  thrust  out  with  passion. 

"Will  you  not  understand  that  were  I  as  foul 
as  hell,  a  woman  like  you  would  make  me  clean 
again?  The  wild  sin  of  our  youth  has  eaten  into 
the  soul  of  my  life.  You  think  I  have  been  indif- 
ferent to  you  and  to  our  boy.  No,  never — ^never! 
That  I  left  you  both  to  yourselves  was  the  best 
proof  I  was  not  neglectful.    I  was  sorry,  with  all 


244  Carnac's  Folly 

my  soul,  that  you  should  have  suffered  through 
me.  In  the  first  reaction,  I  felt  that  nothing 
could  put  me  right  with  you  or  with  eternal  justice. 
So  I  shrank  away  from  you.  You  thought  it  was 
lust  satisfied.  I  tell  you  it  was  honour  shamed. 
Good  God!  You  thought  me  just  the  brazen  roue, 
who  seized  what  came  his  way,  who  ate  the  fruit 
within  his  grasp,  who  lived  to  deceive  for  his  own 
selfish  joy.  Did  you  think  that?  Then,  if  you  did, 
I  do  not  wonder  you  should  be  glad  to  see  my  son 
fighting  me.  It  would  seem  the  horrible  revenge 
Destiny  should  take. ' '  He  took  a  step  nearer  to  her. 
His  face  flamed,  his  arms  stretched  out.  ''I  have 
held  you  in  these  arms.  I  come  with  repentence  in 
my  heart,  with " 

Her  face  now  was  flushed.     She  interrupted  him. 

"I  don't  believe  in  you,  Barode  Barouche.  At 
least  my  husband  did  not  go  from  his  hearth-stone 
looking  for  what  belonged  to  others.  No — no — no, 
however,  much  I  suffered  I  understood  that  what  he 
did  not  feel  for  me  at  least  he  felt  for  no  one  else. 
To  him,  life  was  his  busiaess,  and  to  the  long  end 
business  mastered  his  emotions.  I  have  no  faith 
in  you!  In  the  depth  of  my  soul  something  cries 
out:     *He  is  not  true.    His  life  is  false.'     To  leave 


The  Secret  Meeting 245 

me  that  was  right,  but,  monsieur,  not  as  you  left  me. 
You  pick  the  fruit  and  eat  it,  and  spit  upon  the  ground 
the  fibre  and  the  skin,  I  am  no  longer  the  slave  of 
your  false  eloquence.  It  has  nothing  in  it  for  me 
now,  nothing  at  all — nothing. ' ' 

**Yet  your  son — has  he  naught  of  me?  If  your 
son  has  genius,  I  have  the  right  to  say  a  part  of  it 
came  from  me.  Why  should  you  say  that  all  that's 
good  in  the  boy  is  yours — that  the  boy,  in  all  he 
does  and  says,  is  yours !  No —  no.  Your  long  years 
of  suffering  have  hardened  into  injustice  and  wrong." 

Suddenly  he  touched  her  arm.  ''There  are 
women  as  young  as  you  were  when  I  wronged  you, 
who  would  be  my  wife  now — ^young,  beautiful,  buoy- 
ant ;  but  I  come  to  you  because  I  feel  we  might  still 
have  some  years  of  happiness.  Together,  where  our 
boy's  fate  mattered,  we  two  could  help  him  on  his 
way.     That  is  what  I  feel,  my  dear. ' ' 

When  he  touched  her  arm  she  did  not  move,  yet 
there  was  in  his  fingers  something  which  stirred 
ulcers  long  since  healed  and  scarred.  She  stepped 
back  from  him. 

* '  Do  not  touch  me.  The  past  is  buried  for  ever. 
There  can  be  no  resurrection.  I  know  what  I  should 
do,  and  will  do  it.    For  the  rest  of  my  life,  I  shall 


246  Carnac's  Folly 


live  for  my  son.  I  hope  he  will  defeat  you.  I  don't 
lift  a  hand  to  help  him.  except  to  give  him  money, 
not  John  Grier's  money  but  my  own,  always  that. 
Yon  are  fighting  what  is  stronger  than  yourself. 
One  thing  is  sure,  he  is  nearer  to  the  spirit  of  your 
race  than  you.    He  will  win,  but  yes,  he  will  win ! ' ' 

Her  face  suffused  with  warmth,  became  alive 
with  a  wonderful  fire,  her  whole  being  had  a 
simple  tragedy. 

Once  again,  and  perhaps  for  the  last  time,  she  had 
renewed  the  splendour  of  her  young  womanhood. 
The  vital  warmth  of  a  great  idea  had  given  an 
expression  to  her  face  which  had  long  been  absent 
from  it. 

He  fell  back  from  her.  Then  suddenly  passion 
seized  him.  The  gaunt  beauty  of  her  roused  a  spirit 
of  contest  in  him.  The  evil  thing  in  him,  which  her 
love  for  her  son  had  almost  conquered,  came  back 
upon  him.  He  remembered  Luzanne,  and  now  with 
a  spirit  alive  with  anger  he  said  to  her : 

**No — ^no — ^no,  he  cannot  win."  He  stretched 
out  a  hand.  "I  have  that  which  will  keep  for  me 
the  place  in  Parliament  that  has  been  mine ;  which 
will  send  him  back  to  the  isolation  whence  he  came. 
Do  you  think  I  don't  know  how  to  win  an  election? 


The  Secret  Meeting  247 

Why  from  east  to  west,  from  north  to  south  in  this 
Province  of  Quebec  my  name,  my  fame,  have  been  all 
conquering.  Suppose  he  did  defeat  me,  do  you  think 
that  would  end  my  political  life?  It  would  end  noth- 
ing.   I  should  still  go  on. ' ' 

A  scornful  smile  came  to  her  lips.  "So  you 
think  your  party  would  find  a  seat  for  you  who 
had  been  defeated  by  a  young  man  who  never  knew 
what  political  life  meant  till  he  come  to  this  cam- 
paign? You  think  they  would  find  you  a  seat?  I 
know  you  are  coming  to  the  end  of  your  game,  and 
when  he  defeats  you,  it  will  finish  everything  for 
you.  You  will  disappear  from  public  life,  and  your 
day  will  be  done.  Men  will  point  at  you  as  you  pass 
along  the  street,  and  say:  'There  goes  Barode 
Barouche.  He  was  a  great  man  in  his  day.  He  was 
defeated  by  a  boy  with  a  painter's  brush  in  his 
hand. '  He  will  take  from  you  your  livelihood.  You 
will  go,  and  he  will  stay;  he  will  conquer  and  grow 
strong.  Go  from  me,  Barode  Barouche,"  she  cried, 
thrusting  out  her  hands  against  him,  * '  go  from  me. 
I  love  my  son  with  aU  my  soul.  His  father  has  no 
place  in  my  heart." 

There  had  been  upon  him  the  wild  passion  of 
revenge.    It  had  mastered  him  before  she  spoke,  and 


248 Carnac's  Folly 

while  she  spoke,  but,  as  she  finished,  the  understand- 
ing spirit  of  him  conquered.  Instead  of  telling  her 
of  Luzanne  Larue,  and  of  what  he  would  do  if  he 
found  things  going  against  him,  instead  of  that  he 
resolved  to  say  naught.  He  saw  he  could  not  con- 
quer her.  For  a  minute  after  she  had  ceased  speak- 
ing, he  watched  her  in  silence,  and  in  his  eyes  was 
a  remorse  which  would  never  leave  them.  She 
was  master. 

Slowly,  and  with  a  sense  of  defeat,  he  said  to 
her:  ""Well,  we  shall  never  meet  again  like  this. 
The  fight  goes  on.  I  will  defeat  Carnac.  No,  do  not 
shake  your  head.  He  shall  not  put  me  from  my 
place.  For  you  and  me  there  is  no  future — ^none; 
yet  I  want  to  say  to  you  before  we  part  for  ever 
now,  that  you  have  been  deeper  in  my  life  than  any 
other  woman  since  I  was  bom." 

He  said  no  more.  Catching  up  his  hat  from  the 
chair,  and  taking  his  stick,  he  left  the  room.  He 
opened  the  front  door,  stepped  out,  shut  it  behind 
him,  and,  in  a  moment,  was  lost  in  the  night. 


Chapter  XXII  Point  to  Point 

WHILE  these  things  were  happening,  Camao 
was  spending  all  his  time  in  the  constitu- 
ency. Every  day  was  busy  to  the  last  minute,  every 
hole  in  the  belt  of  his  equipment  was  buckled  tight. 
In  spite  of  his  enthusiasm  he  was,  however,  troubled 
by  the  fact  that  Luzanne  might  appear.  Yet  as  time 
went  on  he  gained  confidence.  There  were  days, 
however ,  when  he  appeared,  mentally,  to  be  watching 
the  street  comers. 

One  day  at  a  public  meeting  he  thought  the  sersa- 
tion  had  come.  He  had  just  finished  his  speech  in 
reply  to  Barode  Barouche — eloquent,  eager,  master- 
ful. Youth's  aspirations,  with  a  curious  sympathy 
with  the  French-Canadian  people,  had  idealized  his 
utterances.  When  he  finished  there  had  been  cheer- 
ing, but  in  the  quiet  instant  that  followed  the  cheer- 
ing, a  habitant  got  up — a  weird,  wilful  fellow  who 
had  a  reputation  for  brag,  yet  who  would  not  have 
hurt  an  enemy,  save  in  wild  passion. 

"M'sieu'  Camac  Grier,"  he  said,  "I'd  like  to  put 
a  question  to  you.    You  Ve  been  asking  for  our  votes. 

249 


250 Carnac's  Folly 


We're  a  family  people,  we  Canucs,  and  we  like  to 
know  where  we're  going.  Tell  me,  m'sieu',  where 's 
yonr  woman." 

Having  asked  the  question,  he  remained  standing. 

"Where's  your  woman?"  the  habitant  had  asked. 
Carnac's  breath  came  quick  and  sharp.  There  were 
many  hundreds  present,  and  a  good  number  of  them 
were  foes.  Barode  Barouche  was  on  the  same  plat- 
form. Not  only  Camac  was  stirred  by  the  question, 
for  Barouche,  who  had  listened  to  his  foe's  speech 
with  admiring  anxiety,  was  startled. 

"Where's  your  woman?"  was  not  a  phrase  to 
be  asked  anyhow,  or  anywhere.  Barouche  was  glad 
of  the  incident.  Eeady  as  he  was  to  meet  challenge, 
he  presently  realized  that  his  son  had  a  readiness 
equally  potent.  He  was  even  pleased  to  see  the  glint 
of  a  smile  at  the  lips  of  the  slim  young  politician,  in 
whom  there  was  more  than  his  own  commingling  of 
temperament,  of  wisdom  and  wantonness  and  raillery. 

After  a  moment,  Camac  said:  "Isn't  that  a 
leading  question  to  an  unmarried  man?" 

Barouche  laughed  inwardly.  Surely  it  was  the 
reply  he  himself  would  have  made.  Camao  had 
showed  himself  a  born  politician.    The  audience 


Point  to  Point 251 


cheered,  but  the  questioner  remained  standing.  He 
meant  to  ask  another  question. 

**Sit  down — sit  down,  jackass!"  shouted  some 
of  the  more  raucous  of  the  crowd,  but  the  man  was 
stubborn.    He  stretched  out  an  arm  towards  Camac. 

''Bien,  look  here,  my  son,  you  take  my  advice. 
Pursue  the  primrose  path  into  the  meadows  of 
matrimony. ' ' 

Again  Camac  shrank,  but  his  mind  rallied  courge- 
ously,  and  he  said:  ''There  are  other  people  who 
want  to  ask  questions,  perhaps."  He  turned  to 
Barode  Barouche.  "I  don't  suggest  my  opponent 
has  planned  this  heckling,  but  he  can  see  it  does  no 
good.  I'm  not  to  be  floored  by  catch-penny  tricks. 
I'm  going  to  win.  I  run  straight.  I  haven't  been 
long  enough  in  politics  to  learn  how  to  deceive.  Let 
the  accomplished  professionals  do  that.  They 
know  how. ' ' 

He  waved  a  hand  disdainfully  at  Barouche.  *  *  Let 
them  put  forth  all  that's  in  them,  I  will  remain;  let 
them  exert  the  last  ounce  of  energy,  I  will  prevail; 
let  them  use  the  thousand  devices  of  elections,  I 
will  use  no  device,  but  rely  upon  my  policy.  I  want 
nothing  except  my  chance  in  Parliament.  My  high- 
est ambition  is  to  make  good  laws.    I  am  for  the  man 


252  Carnac's  Folly 


who  was  the  first  settler  on  the  St.  Lawrence  and 
this  section  of  the  continent — his  history,  his  tradi- 
tion, his  honour  and  fame  are  in  the  history  books 
of  the  world.  If  I  should  live  a  hundred  years,  I 
should  wish  nothing  better  than  the  honour  of 
having  served  the  men  whose  forefathers  served 
Frontenac,  Cartier,  La  Salle  and  Maisonneuve,  and 
all  the  splendid  heroes  of  that  ancient  age.  What 
they  have  done  is  for  all  men  to  do.  They  have 
kept  the  faith.  I  am  for  the  habitant,  for  the  land 
of  his  faith  and  love,  first  and  last  and  all  the  time." 

He  sat  down  in  a  tumult  of  cheering.  Many  pres- 
ent remarked  that  no  two  men  they  had  ever  heard 
spoke  so  much  alike,  and  kept  their  attacks  so  free 
from  personal  things. 

There  had  been  at  this  public  meeting  two  intense 
supporters  of  Camac,  who  waited  for  him  at  the 
exit  from  the  main  doorway.  They  were  Fabian's 
wife  and  Junia. 

Bar  ode  Barouche  came  out  of  the  hall  before 
Camac.  His  quick  eye  saw  the  two  ladies,  and  he 
raised  his  broad-brimmed  hat  like  a  Stuart  cavalier, 
and  smiled. 

**  Waiting  for  your  champion,  eh?"  he  asked  with 
cynical   friendliness.     ''Well,   work  hard,   because 


Point  to  Point  253 


that  will  soften  his  fall."  He  leaned  over,  as  it  were 
confidentially,  to  them,  while  his  friends  craned  their 
necks  to  hear  what  he  said:  "If  I  were  you  I'd 
prepare  him.  He 's  beaten  as  sure  as  the  sun  shines. ' ' 

Junia  was  tempted  to  say  what  was  in  her  mind, 
but  her  sister  Sibyl,  who  resented  Barouche 's  pat- 
ronage, said: 

"There's  an  old  adage  about  the  slip  'twixt  the 
cup  and  the  lip,  Monsieur  Barouche.  He's  young, 
and  he's  got  a  better  policy  than  yours." 

"And  he's  unmarried,  eh!"  Barouche  remarked. 
"He's  unmarried,  and  I  suppose  that  matters!" 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  meaning  in  his 
voice  which  did  not  escape  Jimia. 

"And  Monsieur  Barouche  is  also  unmarried," 
she  remarked.    "So  you're  even  there." 

"Not  quite  even.  I'm  a  widower.  The  women 
don't  work  for  me  as  they  work  for  him." 

"I  don't  understand,"  remarked  Junia.  "The 
women  can't  all  marry  him." 

"There  are  a  lot  of  things  that  can't  be  under- 
stood by  just  blinking  the  eyes,  but  there's  romance 
in  the  fight  of  an  unmarried  man,  and  women  like 
romance  even  if  it's  some  one  else's.  There's  sen- 
sation in  it" 


2C^A.  Carnac^s  Folly ^__ 

Barouche  looked  to  where  Camac  was  slowly 
coming  down  the  centre  of  the  hall.  Women  were 
waving  handkerchiefs  and  throwing  kisses  towards 
him.  One  little  girl  was  pushed  in  front  of  him,  and 
she  reached  out  a  hand  in  which  was  a  wild  rose. 

"That's  for  luck,  m'sieu',''  she  said. 

Camac  took  the  rose,  and  placed  it  in  his  button- 
hole. Then,  stooping  down,hekissed  the  child's  cheek. 

Outside  the  hall,  Barode  Barouche  winked  an 
eye  knowingly.  "He's  got  it  all  down  to  a  science. 
Look  at  him — kissing  the  young  chick.  Neverthe- 
less, he's  walking  into  an  abyss." 

Camac  was  near  enough  now  for  the  confidence 
in  his  face  to  be  seen.  Barouche 's  eyes  suddenly 
grew  resentful.  Sometimes  he  had  a  feeling  of  deep 
affection  for  his  young  challenger ;  sometimes  there 
was  a  storm  of  anger  in  his  bo|Som,  a  hatred  which 
can  be  felt  only  for  a  member  of  one's  own  family. 
Resentment  showed  in  his  face  now.  This  boy  was 
winning  friends  on  every  side. 

Something  in  the  two  men,  some  vibration  of 
temperament,  struck  the  same  cord  in  Junia's  life 
and  being.  She  had  noticed  similar  gestures,  sim- 
ilar intonations  of  voice,  and,  above  all  else,  a  little 
toss  of  the  head  backwards.    She  knew  they  were 


Point  to  Point 255 


not  related,  and  so  she  put  the  whole  thing  down  to 
Carnac's  impressionable  nature  which  led  its  owner 
into  singular  imitations.  It  had  done  so  in  the  field 
of  Art.  He  was  young  enough  to  be  the  imitator 
without  loss  to  himself. 

"I'm  doing  my  best  to  defeat  you,"  she  said  to 
Barouche,  reaching  out  a  hand  for  good-bye,  **and 
I  shall  work  harder  now  than  ever.  You're  so  sure 
you're  going  to  win  that  I  'd  disappoint  you,  monsieur 
— only  to  do  you  good. ' ' 

**Ah,  I'm  sorry  you  haven't  any  real  interest 
in  Camac  Grier,  if  it's  only  to  do  me  good!  Well, 
good-bye — good-bye, ' '  he  added,  raising  his  hat,  and 
presently  was  gone. 

As  Camac  drew  near,  Fabian's  wife  stepped  for- 
ward. ** Camac,"  she  said,  **I  hope  you'll  come 
with  us  on  the  river  in  Fabian's  steamlaunch. 
There's  work  to  do  there.  It's  pay-day  in  the  lum- 
ber-yards on  the  Island,  so  please  come.    Will  you  ? ' ' 

Carnac  laughed.  **Yes,  there's  no  engagement 
to  prevent  it."  He  thanked  Junia  and  Sybil  for  all 
they  had  done  for  him,  and  added:  ''I'd  like  a 
couple  of  hours  among  the  rivermen.  Where's 
the  boat?" 

Fabian's  wife  told  him,  and  added:    **I've  got 


256 Carnac's  Folly ___^ 

the  roan  team  here,  and  you  can  drive  ns  down,  if 
you  will." 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  with  the  cheers  of 
the  crowd  behind  them,  they  were  being  driven  by 
Carnac  to  the  wharf  where  lay  the  ** Fleur-de-lis." 
On  board  was  Fabian. 

''Had  a  good  meeting,  Carnac?"  Fabian  asked. 

**I  should  call  it  first-class.  It  was  like  a  storm 
at  sea — ^wind  from  one  direction,  then  from  another, 
but  I  think  on  the  whole,  we  had  the  best  of  it.  Don 't 
you  think  so?"  he  added  to  Fabian's  wife. 

''Oh,  much  the  best,"  she  answered.  "That's 
so,  Junia,  isn't  it?" 

*'I  wouldn't  say  so  positively,"  answered  Junia. 
"I  don't  understand  Monsieur  Barouche.  He  talked 
as  if  he  had  something  up  his  sleeve."  Her  face 
became  clouded.  "Have  you  any  idea  what  it 
is,  Carnac?" 

Carnac  laughingly  shook  his  head.  "That's  his 
way.  He's  always  blufl&ng.  He  does  it  to  make 
believe  the  game's  his,  and  to  destroy  my  confidence. 
He's  a  man  of  mark,  but  he's  having  the  biggest 
fight  he  ever  had — of  that  I'm  sure.  ...  Do  you 
think  I'll  win?"  he  asked  Junia  presently  with  a 


Point  to  Point 257 


laugh,  as  they  made  their  way  down  the  river. 
"Have  I  conquest  in  my  eye?'* 

How  seldom  did  Junia  have  Carnac  to  herself 
in  these  days!  How  kind  of  Fabian  tQ  lend  his 
yacht  for  the  purpose  of  canvassing!  But  Sybil 
had  in  her  mind  a  deeper  thing — she  had  become 
a  match-maker.  She  and  Fabian,  when  the  boat 
left  the  shore,  went  to  one  comer  of  the  stem,  leav- 
ing Carnac  and  Junia  in  the  bow. 

Three  miles  below  the  city  was  the  Island  on 
which  many  voters  were  working  in  a  saw-mill  and 
lumber-yard.  It  had  supporters  of  Barouche  chiefly 
in  the  yards  and  mills.  Carnac  had  never  visited 
it,  and  it  was  Junia 's  view  that  he  should  ingratiate 
himself  with  the  workers,  a  rough  and  ready  lot. 
They  were  ready  to  ** burst  a  meeting"  or  bludgeon 
a  candidate  on  occasion. 

When  Carnac  asked  his  question  Junia  smiled  up 
at  him.  "Yes,  I  think  you'll  win,  Carnac.  You 
have  the  tide  with  you."  Presently  she  added: 
"I'm  not  sure  that  you've  got  all  the  cards,  though 
— I  don't  know  why,  but  I  have  that  fear." 

"You  think  that " 

She  nodded.  "I  think  Monsieur  Barouche  has 
some  cards  he  hasn't  played  yet.  What  they  are 
17 


2^8 Carnac's  Folly 

I  don't  know,  but  he's  confident.  Tell  me,  Camac, 
is  there  any  card  that  would  defeat  you?  Have  you 
committed  any  crime  against  the  law — ^no,  I'm  sure 
you  haven't,  but  I  want  to  hear  you  say  so."  She 
smiled  cheerfully  at  him. 

**He  has  no  card  of  any  crime  of  mine,  and  he 
can't  hit  me  in  a  mortal  place." 

**You  have  the  right  policy  for  this  province. 
But  tell  me,  is  there  anyone  who  could  hurt  you, 
who  could  spring  up  in  the  fight — ^man  or  woman?" 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye,  and  his  own 
did  not  waver. 

"There's  no  one  has  a  knock-out  blow  for  me 
— that's  sure.    I  can  weather  any  storm." 

He  paused,  however,  disconcerted,  for  the  mem- 
ory of  Luzanne  came  to  him,  and  his  spirit  became 
clouded.    ''Except  one — except  one,"  he  added. 

"And  you  wo^i't  tell  me  who  it  is?" 


Chapter  XXIII  The  Man  who  Would  Not 

NO,  I  can't  tell  you — ^yet,*'  answered  Camac. 
"Yon  ought  to  know;  though  you  can't  put 
things  right. " 

** Don't  forget  you  are  a  public  man,  and  what 
might  happen  if  things  went  wrong.  There  are 
those  who  would  gladly  roast  you  on  a  gridiron  for 
what  you  are  in  politics. ' ' 

"I  never  forget  it.  I've  no  crime  to  repent  of, 
and  I'm  afraid  of  nothing  in  the  last  resort.  Look, 
we're  nearing  the  Island. ' ' 

''It*s  your  worst  place  in  the  constituency,  and 
I'm  not  sure  of  your  reception.  Oh,  but  yes,  I  am,'* 
she  added  hastily.  "You  always  win  good  feeling. 
No  one  really  hates  you.  You're  on  the  way  to 
big  success." 

"I've  had  some  unexpected  luck.  I've  got  Tarboe 
on  my  side.  He's  a  member  of  Barouche 's  party, 
but  he's  coming  with  me." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?"  she  asked  with  apparent 
interest. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  him,  and  in  it  he  says, 

2S9  ^ 


26o Carnac's  Folly 

lie  is  with  me  *to  the  knife!'  That's  good.  Tarboe 
has  a  big  hold  on  rivermen,  and  he  may  carry  with 
him  some  of  the  opposition.  It  was  a  good  letter — 
if  puzzling." 

''How  puzzling?" 

**He  said  in  one  part  of  it,  'When  you  come  back 
here  to  play  your  part,  you'll  mal^e  it  a  success,  the 
whole  blessed  thing. '  I  've  no  idea  what  he  meant  by 
that.  I  don't  think  he  wants  me  as  a  partner,  and 
I'll  give  him  no  chance  of  it.  I  don't  want  now  what 
I  could  have  had  when  Fabian  left.  That's  all 
over,  Junia." 

*'He  meant  something  by  it;  he's  a  very  able 
man, ' '  she  replied  gravely.    ' '  He 's  a  huge  success, ' ' 

**And  women  love  success  more  than  all  else," 
he  remarked  a  little  cynically. 

"You're  unjust,  Camac.  Of  course,  women  love 
success;  but  they'd  not  sell  their  souls  for  it — ^not 
the  real  women — and  you  ought  to  know  it." 

**I  ought  to  know  it,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
and  he  held  her  eyes  meaningly.  He  was  about  to  say 
something  vital,  but  Fabian  and  his  wife  appeared. 

Fabian  said  to  him:  "Don't  be  surprised  if  you 
get  a  bad  reception  here,  Camac.  It's  the  worst 
place  on  the  river,  and  I've  no  influence  over  the 


The  Man  who  Would  Not 26^ 

men — I  don't  believe  Tarboe  could  have.  They're 
a  difficult  lot.  There's  Eugene  Grandois,  he's  as 
bad  as  they  make  'em.  He's  got  a  grudge  against  us 
because  of  some  act  of  father,  and  he  may  break  out 
any  time.  He's  a  labour  leader  too,  and  we 
must  be  vigilant." 

Camac  nodded.  He  made  no  reply  in  words. 
They  were  nearing  the  little  dock,  and  men  were 
coming  to  the  point  where  the  launch  would  stop. 

'* There's  Grandois  now!"  said  Fabian  with  a 
wry  smile,  for  he  had  a  real  fear  of  results.  He 
had,  however,  no  idea  how  skilfully  Camac  would 
handle  the  situation — ^yet  he  had  heard  much  of  his 
brother's  adaptability.  He  had  no  psychological 
sense,  and  Camac  had  big  endowment  of  it.  Yet 
Camac  was  not  demonstrative.  It  was  his  quiet 
way  that  played  the  game  for  him.  He  never  spoke, 
if  being  could  do  what  he  wanted.  He  had  the  sense 
of  physical  speech  without  words.  He  was  a  bold 
adventurer,  but  his  methods  were  those  of  the  sub- 
tlest. If  a  motion  of  the  hand  was  sufficient,  then 
let  it  go  at  that. 

"You  people  after  our  votes  never  come  any 
other  time,"  sneeringly  said  Eugene  Grandois,  as 


262  Carnac's  Folly 


Camac  and  Fabian  landed.  **It*s  only  when  you 
want  to  use  us." 

** Would  you  rather  I  didn't  come  at  all?"  asked 
Carnac  with  a  friendly  smile.  "You  can't  have  it 
both  ways.  If  I  came  here  any  other  time  you'd 
want  to  know  why  I  didn't  stay  away,  and  I  come 
now  because  it's  good,  you  should  know  if  I'm  fit 
to  represent  you  in  Parliament." 

"There's  sense,  my  bonny  boy,"  said  an  English- 
Canadian  labourer  standing  near.  "What  you  got 
to  say  to  that,  little  skeezicks?"  he  added  teasingly 
to  Eugene  Grandois. 

"He  ain't  got  more  gifts  than  his  father  had, 
and  we  all  know  what  he  was — that's  so,  bagoshi" 
remarked  Grandois  viciously. 

*  *  Well,  what  sort  of  a  man  was  he  ?  "  asked  Camac 
cooly,  with  a  warning  glance  at  Fabian,  who  was 
resentful.  Indeed,  Fabian  would  have  struck  the 
man  if  his  brother  had  not  been  present  and  then 
been  torn  to  pieces  himself. 

"What  sort — don't  you  know  the  kind  of  things 
he  done?  If  you  don't,  I  do,  and  there's  lots  of 
others  know,  and  don't  you  forget  it,  mon  vieux/' 

"That's  no  answer,  Monsieur  Grandois — ^none 
at  aU.    It  tells  nothing,"  remarked  Camac  cheerily. 


The  Man  who  Would  Not 263 

"You  got  left  out  of  his  will,  m'sieu',  you  talk 
as  if  he  was  all  right — that's  blither." 

* '  My  father  had  a  conscience.  He  gave  me  chance 
to  become  a  partner  in  the  business,  and  I  wouldn't, 
and  he  threw  me  over — ^what  else  was  there  to  do? 
I  could  have  owned  the  business  to-day,  if  I'd  played 
the  game  as  he  thought  it  ought  to  be  played.  I 
didn't,  and  he  left  me  out — that's  all." 

"MaMn'  your  own  way,  ain't  you?"  said  the 
English  labourer.  '* That's  hit  you  where  you're 
tender,  Grandois.    What  you  got  to  say  to  that?" 

The  intense  black  eyes  of  the  habitant  sparkled 
wickedly,  his  jaws  set  with  passion,  and  his  sturdy 
frame  seemed  to  fasten  to  the  ground.  His  gnarled 
hands  now  shot  out  fiercely. 

**What  I  got  to  say  I  Only  this:  John  Grier 
played  the  devil's  part.  He  turned  me  and  my  fam- 
ily out  into  the  streets  in  winter-time,  and  the  law 
upheld  him,  old  beast  that  he  was — sacre  diahle!'* 

"Beast — devil  1  Grandois,  those  are  hard  words 
about  a  man  in  his  son's  presence,  and  they're  not 
true.  Tou  think  you  can  say  such  things  because 
I'm  standing  for  Parliament.  Beast,  devil,  eh? 
You've  got  a  free  tongue,  Grandois;  you  forgot  to 
say  that  my  father  paid  the  doctor's  bill  for  your 


264 Carnac's  Folly . 

whole  family  when  they  were  taken  down  with  small- 
pox ;  and  he  kept  them  for  weeks  afterwards.  You 
forgot  to  recall  that  when  he  turned  you  out  for 
being  six  months  behind  with  your  rent  and  making 
no  effort  to  pay  up!  Who  was  the  devil  and  heast 
then,  Grandois?  Who  spat  upon  his  own  wife  and 
children  then!  You  haven't  a  good  memory.  .  .  . 
Come,  I  think  your  account  with  my  father  is 
squared;  and  I  want  you  to  vote  to.  put  my  father's 
son  in  Parliament,  and  to  put  out  Barode  Barouche, 
who's  been  there  too  long.  Come,  come,  Grandois, 
isn't  it  a  bargain?  Your  tongue's  sharp,  but  your 
heart's  in  the  right  place — ^is  it  a  bargain!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  applause  from  the 
crowd,  but  Grandois  was  not  to  be  softened.  His 
anger,  however,  had  behind  it  some  sense  of  caution, 
and  what  Camac  said  about  the  small-pox  incident 
struck  him  hard.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
been  hit  between  the  eyes  where  John  Grier  was 
concerned.  His'  prestige  with  the  men  was  now 
under  a  shadow,  yet  he  dared  not  deny  the  truth  of 
the  statement.  It  could  be  proved.  His  braggart 
hatred  of  John  Grier  had  come  home  to  roost. 
Camac  saw  that,  and  he  was  glad  he  had  challenged 
the  man.    He  believed  that  in  politics,  as  in  all  other 


The  Man  who  Would  Not 26^ 

departments  of  life,  candour  and  bold  play  were  best 
in  the  long  run.  Yet  he  would  like  to  see  the  man 
in  a  different  humour,  and  with  joy  he  heard  Junia 
say  to  Grand ois : 

**How  is  the  baby  boy,  and  how  is  madame, 
Monsieur  Grandois?" 

It  came  at  the  right  moment,  for  only  two  days 
before  had  Madame  Grandois  given  her  husband  the 
boy  for  which  he  had  longed.  Junia  had  come  to 
know  of  it  through  a  neighbour  and  had  sent  jellies 
to  the  sick  woman.  As  she  came  forward  now, 
Grandois,  taken  aback,  said: 

''Alors,  they're  all  right,  ma'm'selle,  thank  you. 
It  was  you  sent  the  jellies,  eh?" 

She  nodded  with  a  smile.  **Yes,  I  sent  them 
Grandois.  May  I  come  and  see  madame  and  the 
boy  to-morrow?'' 

The  incident  had  taken  a  favourable  turn. 

**It's  about  even — things  between  us,  Grandois?" 
asked  Carnac,  and  held  out  his  hand.  **My  father 
hit  you,  but  you  hit  him  harder  by  forgetting  about 
the  small-pox  and  the  rent,  and  also  by  drinking  up 
the  cash  that  ought  to  have  paid  the  rent.  It  doesn't 
matter  now  that  the  rent  was  never  paid,  but  it 
does  that  you  recall  the  small-pox  debt.    Can't  you 


266 Carnac's  Folly 

say  a  word  for  me,  Grandois?  You're  a  big  man 
here  among  all  the  workers.  I'm  a  better  French- 
man than  the  man  I'm  trying  to  turn  out.  Just  a 
word  for  a  good  cause.  They're  waiting  for  you, 
and  your  hand  on  it !  Here 's  a  place  for  you  on  the 
roost.    Come  up. ' ' 

The  *' roost"  was  an  upturned  tub  lying  face 
down  on  the  ground,  and  in  the  passion  of  the 
moment,  the  little  man  gripped  Carnac's  hand  and 
stood  on  the  tub  to  great  cheering;  for  if  there  was 
one  thing  the  French-Canadians  love,  it  is  sensation, 
and  they  were  having  it.  They  were  mostly 
Barouche 's  men,  but  they  were  emotional,  and  melo- 
drama had  stirred  their  feelings. 

Besides,  like  the  Irish,  they  had  a  love  of  femin- 
ine nature,  and  in  all  the  river-coves  Junia  was 
known  by  sight  at  least,  and  was  admired.  She 
had  the  freshness  of  face  and  mind,  which  is  the 
heart  of  success  with  the  habitants.  "With  Eugene 
Grandois  on  his  feet,  she  heard  a  speech  which  had 
in  it  the  best  spirit  of  Gallic  eloquence,  though  it 
was  crude.    But  it  was  forcible  and  adroit. 

"Friends  and  comrades,"  said  Eugene  Grandois, 
with  his  hands  playing  loosely,  ** there's  been 
misunderstandings  between  me  and  the  Grier  family. 


The  Man  who  Would  Not 267 

and  I  was  out  against  it,  but  I  see  things  different 
since  M'sieu'  Camac  has  spoke — and  I'm  changing 
my  mind — certainlee  That  throwing  out  of  my 
house  hit  me  and  my  woman  and  little  ones  hard, 
and  I've  been  resentin'  it  all  these  years  till  now; 
but  I'm  weighin'  one  thing  agin  another,  and  I'm 
willing  to  forget  my  wrongs  for  this  young  man's 
sake.  He's  for  us  French.  Alors,  some  of  you  was 
out  to  hurt  our  friend  M'sieu'  Camac  here,  and  I 
didn't  say  no  to  it;  but  you'd  better  keep  your  weap- 
ons for  election  day  and  use  them  agin  Barode 
Barouche.  I  got  a  change  of  heart.  I've  laid  my 
plate  on  the  table  with  a  prayer  that  I  get  it  filled 
with  good  political  doctrine,  and  I've  promised  that 
the  food  I'm  to  get  is  what's  best  for  all  of  us. 
M'sieu'  Camac  Grier's  got  the  right  stuff  in  him, 
and  I'm  for  him  both  hands  up — ^both  hands  way  up 
high,  nam  de  pipe!" 

At  that  he  raised  both  hands  above  his  head  with 
a  loud  cheer,  and  later  Camac  Grier  was  carried  to 
the  launch  in  the  arms  of  Eugene  Grandois'  friends. 


Chapter  XXIV The  Blue  Paper 

WHO  are  you,  ma'm'selle?'* 
It  was  in  the  house  of  Eugene  Gran- 
dois  that  this  question  was  asked  of  Junia.  She 
had  followed  the  experience  on  the  Island  by  a  visit 
to  Grandois'  house,  carrying  delicacies  for  the  sick 
wife.  Denzil  had  come  with  her,  and  was  waiting 
in  the  street. 

She  had  almost  ended  her  visit  when  the  outer 
door  opened  and  Luzanne  Larue  entered  carrying 
a  dish  she  placed  on  the  table,  eyeing  Junia  closely. 
First  they  bowed  to  each  other,  and  Junia  gave 
a  pleasant  smile,  but  instantly  she  felt  here  was  a 
factor  in  her  own  life — ^how,  she  could  not  tell ! 

To  Luzanne,  the  face  of  Junia  had  no  familiar 
feature,  and  yet  she  felt  here  was  one  whose  life's 
lines  crossed  her  own.  So  it  was  she  presently  said, 
"Who  are  you,  ma'm'selle?"  in  a  sharp  voice.  As 
Junia  did  not  reply  at  once,  she  put  the  question 
in  another  form,  ''What  is  your  name,  ma'm'selle?" 

**It  is  Junia  Shale,"  said  the  other  calmly,  yet 

with  heart  beating  hard.    Somehow  the  question 
268 


The  Blue  Paper 269 

foreshadowed  painful  things,  associated  with  Carnac. 
Her  first  glance  at  Luzanne  showed  the  girl  was 
well  dressed,  that  she  had  a  face  of  some  beauty, 
that  her  eyes  were  full  of  glamour — ^black  and  bold, 
and,  in  a  challenging  way,  beautiful.  It  was  a  face 
and  figure  full  of  daring.  She  was  not  French- 
Canadian  ;  yet  she  was  French ;  that  was  clear  from 
her  accent.  Yet  the  voice  had  an  accent  of  crudity, 
and  the  plump  whiteness  of  the  skin  and  waving 
fulness  of  the  hair  gave  the  girl  a  look  of  an  adven- 
turess. She  was  dressed  in  black  with  a  white 
collar  which,  by  contrast,  seemed  to  heighten  her 
unusual  nature. 

At  first  Junia  shuddered,  for  Luzanne*s  presence 
made  her  uneasy ;  yet  the  girl  must  have  good  qual- 
ities, for  she  had  brought  comforts  to  the  sick  woman, 
and  indeed,  within,  madame  had  spoken  of  the  "dear 
beautiful  stranger."  That  could  be  no  other  than 
this  girl.  She  became  composed.  Yet  she  had  a 
feeling  that  between  them  was  a  situation  needing 
all  her  resources.  About  what?  She  would  soon 
know,  and  she  gave  her  name  at  last  slowly,  keeping 
her  eyes  on  those  of  Luzanne. 

At  mention  of  the  name,  Luzanne's  eyes  took 


270 Carnac's  Folly 


on  prejudice  and  mproseness.  The  pupils  enlarged, 
the  lids  half  closed,  the  face  grew  sour. 

**Junia  Shale — ^you  are  Junia  Shale?'*  The 
voice  was  bitter  and  resentful.  i 

Junia  nodded,  and  in  her  smile  was  understand- 
ing and  conflict,  for  she  felt  this  girl  to  be  her  foe. 

"We  must  have  a  talk — that's  sure,"  Luzanne 
said  with  decision. 

**Who  are  you?"  asked  Junia  calmly. 

"I  am  Luzanne  Larue." 

"That  makes  me  no  wiser.'* 

"Hasn't  Camac  Grier  spoken  of  me?" 

Junia  shook  her  head,  and  turned  her  face 
towards  the  door  of  Madame  Grandois '  room.  *  *  Had 
we  not  better  go  somewhere  else  to  talk,  after  you've 
seen  Madame  Grandois  and  the  baby?"  she  asked 
with  a  smile,  yet  she  felt  she  was  about  to  face  an 
alarming  event.  "Madame  Grandois  has  spoken 
pleasantly  of  you  to  me,"  Junia  added,  for  tact  was 
her  prompt  faculty.  "If  you'd  come  where  we 
talk  undisturbed — do  you  see?" 

Luzanne  made  no  reply  in  words,  but  taking  up 
the  dish  she  went  into  the  sick-room,  and  Junia  heard 
her  in  short  friendly  speech  with  Madame  Grandois. 
Luzanne  appeared  again  soon  and  spoke:    "Now 


The  Blue  Paper  271 

we  can  go  where  I  'm  boarding.  It 's  only  tliree  doors 
away,  and  we  can  be  safe  there.  You'd  like  to  talk 
with  me — ^ah,  yes,  sureleel" 

Her  eyes  were  combative  and  repellent,  but 
Junia  was  not  dismayed,  and  she  said:  **What 
shall  we  talk  about?'* 

"There's  only  one  thing  and  one  person  to  talk 
about,  ma'm'selle." 

"I  still  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

** Aren't  you  engaged  to  Carnac  Grier?  Don't 
you  think  you're  going  to  marry  him?  .  .  .  Don't 
you  like  to  tell  the  truth,  then?"  she  added. 

Junia  raised  her  eyebrows.  **I'm  not  engaged 
to  Carnac  Grier,  and  he  has  never  asked  me  to  marry 
him — but  what  business  is  it  of  yours  ma'm'selle?" 

''Come  and  I'll  tell  you."  Luzanne  moved 
towards  the  door.  They  were  speechless  till  they 
reached  Luzanne 's  lodgings. 

''This  is  the  house  of  Monsieur  Marmette,  an 
agent  of  Monsieur  Barouche,"  said  Junia.  "I 
know  it." 

''You'll  know  it  better  soon.  The  agent  of 
M'sieu'  Barouche  is  a  man  of  mark  about  here, 
and  he'll  be  more  marked  soon — but  yes  I" 


272 Carnac's  Folly 

**You  think  Monsieur  Barouche  will  be  elected, 
do  you?"  asked  Junia,  as  they  closed  the  door. 

*  *  I  know  he  will. ' ' 

**IVe  been  working  for  Monsieur  Grier  and  that 
isn  't  my  opinion. ' ' 

"  I  'm  working  for  Barode  Barouche,  and  I  know 
the  result." 

"They  were  now  in  Luzanne's  small  room,  and 
Junia  noted  that  it  had  all  the  characteristics  of 
a  habitant  dwelling — even  to  the  crucifix  at  the  head 
of  the  bed,  and  the  picture  of  the  French-Canadian 
Premier  of  the  Dominion  on  the  wall.  She  also  saw 
a  rosary  on  a  Kttle  hook  beside  the  bed. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Because  I  am  the  wife  of  Camac  Grier,  and 
I  know  what  will  happen  to  him.  .  .  .  You  turn 
pale,  ma'm'selle,  but  your  colour  isn't  going  to  alter 
the  truth.  I'm  Camac  Grier 's  wife  by  the  laws  of 
New  York  state." 

"Does  Monsieur  Grier  admit  he  is  your 
husband?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.  He  must  respect  the  law 
by  which  he  married  me." 

'*!  don't  believe  he  was  ever  honestly  married 


The  Blue  Paper 273 

to  you,"  declared  Junia  bravely.    ''Has  he  ever 
lived  with  you — for  a  single  day?" 

''What  difference  would  that  make?  I  have  the 
marriage  certificate  here. ' '     She  touched  her  bosom. 

"I'd  have  thought  you  were  Barode  Barouche 's 
wife  by  the  way  you  act.  Isn't  it  a  wife's  duty 
to  help  her  husband Shouldn't  you  be  fight- 
ing against  Barode  Barouche?" 

"I  mean  to  be  recognized  as  Carnac  Grier's  wife 
— that's  why  I'm  here." 

"Have  you  seen  him  since  you've  been  here? 
Have  you  told  him  how  you're  working  against  him. 
Have  you  got  the  certificate  with  you?" 

"Of  course.  I've  got  my  head  on  like  a  piece 
of  flesh  and  blood  that  belongs  to  me — hein  sur." 

She  suddenly  drew  from  her  breast  a  folded  piece 
of  blue  paper.  "There  it  is,  signed  by  Judge 
Grimshaw  that  married  us,  and  there's  the  seal; 
and  the  whole  thing  can't  be  set  aside.  Look  at 
it,  if  you  like,  petite.'* 

She  held  it  not  far  from  Junia's  face,  and  Junia 
could  see  that  was  registration  of  a  marriage  of 
New  York  State.  She  could  have  snatched  the  paper 
away,  but  she  meant  to  conquer  Luzanne's 
savage  spirit. 
18 


274 Carnac's  Folly 

"Well,  how  do  you  intend  to  defeat  your 
husband?" 

'*I  mean  to  have  the  people  asked  from  a  plat- 
form if  they've  seen  the  wife  of  the  candidate,  and 
then  a  copy  of  the  certificate  will  be  read  to  all. 
"What  do  you  think  will  happen  after  that?" 

"It  will  have  to  be  done  to-night  or  to-morrow 
night,"  remarked  Junia. 

"Because  the  election  comes  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, eh?" 

"Because  of  that.  And  who  will  read  the 
document?" 

"Who  but  the  man  he*s  trying  to  defeat — ^tell 
me  that." 

"You  mean  Barode  Barouche?" 

"Who- else?" 

"Has  he  agreed  to  do  it?" 

Luzanne  nodded.  "On  the  day  Camac  became 
a  candidate." 

"And  if  Camac  Grier  denies  it?" 

"He  won't  deny  it.  He  never  has.  He  say's 
Hie  was  drunk  when  the  thing  was  done — mais,  oui." 

"Is  that  all  he  says?" 

"No.  He  says  he  didn't  know  it  was  a  real 
inarriage,  and "  Luzanne  then  related  Carnac's 


The  Blue  Paper 275 

defence,  and  added:  "Do  you  think  anyone  would 
believe  him  with  the  facts  as  they  are?  Remember 
I'm  French  and  he's  English,  and  that  marriage 
to  a  French  girl  is  life  and  death;  and  this  is  a 
French  province ! ' ' 

"And  yet  you  are  a  Catholic  and  French,  and 
were  married  by  a  Protestant  judge." 

"That  is  my  own  affair,  ma'm'selle." 

"It  is  not  the  thing  to  say  to  French-Canadians 
here.  What  do  you  get  out  of  it  all  ?  If  he  is  your 
husband,  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  have  him  success- 
ful than  your  defeated  victim.  What  will  be  yours 
if  you  defeat  him  ? ' ' 

"Revenge — my  rights — the  lawl'*  was  the 
sharp  rejoinder. 

Junia  smiled.  "What  is  there  in  it  all  for  you! 
If  the  man  I  married  did  not  love  me,  I  'd  use  the  law 
to  be  free.  What's  the  good  of  trying  to  destroy 
a  husband  who  doesn't  love  you,  who  never  loved 
you — never. ' ' 

"You  don't  know,  that,"  retorted  Luzanne 
sharply. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  He  never  loved  you.  He  never  lived 
with  you  for  a  single  day.  That's  in  the  power  of 
a  doctor  to  prove.    If  you  are  virtuous,  then  he 


276 Carnac's  Folly 

has  taken  nothing;  if  you  have  given  your  all,  and 
not  to  Carnac  Grier,  what  will  his  mind  be  about 
you!  Is  it  money?  He  has  no  money  except  what 
he  earns.  His  father  left  him  nothing — not  a  dollar. 
Why  do  you  hate  him  sot  I've  known  him  all  my 
life,  and  I've  never  known  him  to  hurt  man  or  ani- 
mal. When  did  he  ever  misuse  you,  or  hurt  you? 
Did  he  ever  treat  you  badly?  How  did  you  come  to 
know  him  ?    Answer  that. ' ' 

She  paused  and  Luzanne  flushed.  The  first  meet- 
ing !  Why,  that  was  the  day  Carnac  had  saved  her 
life,  had  taken  her  home  safe  from  danger,  and  had 
begun  a  friendship  with  behind  it  only  a  desire  to 
help  her.  And  how  had  she  repaid  the  saviour  of 
her  life?  By  tricking  him  into  a  marriage,  and  then 
by  threatening  him,  if  he  did  not  take  her  to  his  home. 

Truth  is,  down  beneath  her  misconduct  was  a 
passion  for  the  man  which,  not  satisfied,  became 
a  passion  to  destroy  him  and  his  career.  It  was 
a  characteristic  of  her  blood  and  breed.  It  was 
a  relic  of  ancient  dishonour,  inherited  and  search- 
ing; it  was  atavism  and  the  incorrigible  thing. 
Beneath  everything  was  her  desire  for  the  man,  and 
the  mood  in  which  she  had  fought  for  him  was  the 
twist  of  a  tortured  spirit.    She  was  not  so  deliber- 


The  Blue  Paper 277 

ate  as  her  actions  had  indicated.  She  had  been 
under  the  malicious  influence  of  her  father  and  her 
father's  friend.  She  was  like  one  possessed  of  a 
spirit  that  would  not  be  deterred  from  its  purpose. 

Junia  saw  the  impression  she  had  made,  and 
set  it  down  to  her  last  words. 

**  Where  did  you  first  meet  him!  What  was  the 
way  of  it?"  she  added. 

Suddenly  Junia  came  forward  and  put  her  hands 
on  Luzanne's  shoulders.  "I  think  you  loved  Carnac 
once,  and  perhaps  you  love  him  now,  and  are  only 
trying  to  hurt  him  out  of  anger.  If  you  destroy 
him,  you  will  repent  of  it — so  soon!  I  don't  know 
what  is  behind  these  things  you  are  doing,  but  you'll 
be  sorry  for  it  when  it  is  too  late.  Yes,  I  know  you 
have  loved  Carnac,  for  I  see  all  the  signs " 

**Do  you  love  him  then,  ma'm'selle?"  asked 
Luzanne  exasperated.     * '  Do  you  love  him  ? ' ' 

**He  has  never  asked  me,  and  I  have  never  told 
him  that;  and  to  speak  truth,  I  don't  know,  but, 
if  I  did,  I  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  help  him, 
and  if  he  didn't  love  me,  I'd  help  him  just  the  same. 
And  so,  I  think,  should  you.  If  you  ever  loved  him, 
then  you  ought  to  save  him  from  evil.    Tell  me, 


278  Carnac's  Folly 

did  Camac  ever  do  you  a  kind  act,  one  that  is  worth 
while  in  your  life'* 

For  a  moment  Luzanne  stood  dismayed,  then  a 
new  expression  drove  the  dark  light  from  her  eyes. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  found  a  new  sense. 

**He  saved  my  life  the  day  we  first  met,"  she 
said  at  last  under  Junia's  hypnotic  influence. 

**And  now  you  would  strike  him  when  he  is 
trjdng  to  do  the  big  thing.  You  threaten  to  declare 
his  marriage,  in  the  face  of  those  who  can  elect 
him  to  play  a  great  part  for  his  country.'* 

Junia  saw  the  girl  was  in  emotional  turmoil,  was 
obsessed  by  one  idea,  and  she  felt  her  task  had 
vast  difficulty.  That  Camac  should  have  married 
the  girl  was  incredible,  that  he  had  played  an  un- 
worthy part  seemed  sure;  yet  it  was  in  keeping  with 
his  past  temperament.  The  girl  was  the  extreme 
contrast  of  himself,  with  dark — almost  piercing — 
eyes,  and  a  paleness  which  was  physically  constitu- 
tional— the  joy  of  the  artistic  spirit.  It  was  the 
head  of  a  tragedienne  or  a  martyr,  and  the  lean 
rather  beautiful  body  was  eloquent  of  life. 

Presently  Junia  said:  **To  try  to  spoil  him 
would  be  a  crime  against  his  country,  and  I  shall 
tell  him  you  are  here.** 


The  Blue  Paper 279 

**He'll  do  nothing  at  alL"  The  French  girl's 
words  were  suddenly  biting,  malicious  and  defiant. 
The  moment's  softness  she  had  felt  was  gone,  and 
hardness  returned.  **If  he  hasn't  moved  against 
me  since  he  married  me,  hewouldn'tdare  do  so  now!*' 

"Why  hasn't  he  moved?  Because  you're  a 
woman,  and  also  he'd  believe  you'd  repent  of  your 
conduct.  But  I  believe  he  will  act  sternly  against 
you  at  once.    There  is  much  at  stake." 

"You  want  it  for  your  own  sake,"  said  Luzanne 
sharply.  "You  think  he'd  marry,  you  if  I  gave 
him  up." 

"Perhaps  he'd  ask  me  to  marry  him,  if  you 
weren't  in  the  way,  but  I'd  have  my  own  mind  about 
that,  and  knowing  what  you've  told  me — truth  or 
lie — ^I'd  weigh  it  all  carefully.  Besides,  he's  not 
the  only  man.  Doesn't  that  ever  strike  you?  Why 
try  to  hold  him  by  a  spurious  bond  when  there  are 
other  men  as  good-looking,  as  clever.  Is  your  world 
so  bare  of  men — ^no,  I'm  sure  it  isn't,"  she  added, 
for  she  saw  anger  rising  in  the  impulsive  girl. 
"There  are  many  who'd  want  to  marry  you,  and 
it's  better  to  marry  some  one  who  loves  you  than  to 
hold  to  one  who  doesn't  love  you  at  all.  Is  it  hate? 
He  saved  your  life — and  that's  how  you  came  to  know 


280 Carnac's  Folly 


him  first,  and  now  you  would  destroy  him!  He's  a 
great  man.  He  would  not  bend  to  his  father's  will, 
and  so  he  was  left  without  a  cent  of  his  father's 
money.  All  because  he  has  a  conscience,  and  an 
independence  worthy  of  the  best  that  ever  lived. 
.  .  .  That's  the  soul  of  the  man  you  are  trying 
to  hurt.  If  you  had  a  real  soul,  there  wouldn't  be 
even  the  thought  of  this  crime.  Do  you  think  he 
wouldn't  loathe  you,  if  you  do  this  ghastly  thing? 
Would  any  real  man  endure  it  for  an  hour?  What 
do  you  expect  to  get  but  ugly  revenge  on  a  man  who 
never  gave  anything  except  friendship?" 

"Friendship — friendship — ^yes,  he  gave  that,  but 
emotion  too." 

*  'You  think  that  real  men  marry  women  for  whom 
they  only  have  emotion.  You  think  that  he — Carnac 
Grier — ^would  marry  any  woman  on  that  basis? 
Come,  ma'm'selle,  the  truth!  He  didn't  know  he 
was  being  married,  and  when  you  told  him  it  was 
a  real  marriage  he  left  you  at  once.  You  and  yours 
tricked  him — ^the  man  you'd  never  have  known  if 
he  hadn't  saved  your  life.  You  thought  that  with 
your  beauty — ^yes,  you  are  beautiful — ^you'd  conquer 
him,  and  that  he'd  give  in,  and  became  a  real  hus- 
band in  a  real  home.    Come  now  isn  't  that  it  ?  " 


The  Blue  Paper 281 

The  other  did  not  reply.  Her  face  was  alive  with 
memories.  The  lower  things  were  flying  from  it, 
a  spirit  of  womanhood  was  living  in  her — feebly,  but 
truly,  living.  She  was  conscious  of  the  insanity  of 
her  pursuit  of  Camac.  For  a  few  moments  she 
stood  silent,  and  then  she  said  with  agitation : 

*  *  If  I  give  this  up ' ' — she  took  from  her  breast  the 
blue  document — **he'd  be  safe  in  his  election,  and 
he'd  marry  you,  is  it  not  so,  ma'm'selle?" 

**He'd  be  safe  for  his  election,  but  he  has  never 
asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  there  are  others  besides 

him "  She  was  thinking  of  Tarboe.     **Tell  me," 

she  added  suddenly,  "To  whom  have  you  told  this 
thing  in  Montreal?  Did  you  mean  to  challenge 
him  yourself?" 

**I  told  it  only  to  M'sieu'  Barouche,  and  he  said 
he  would  use  it  at  the  right  moment — and  the  right 
moment  has  come,"  she  added.  **He  asked  me  for 
a  copy  of  it  last  night,  and  I  said  I'd  give  it  to  him 
to-day.  It's  because  of  him  I've  been  here  quiet  all 
these  weeks  as  Ma'm'selle  Larue." 

**He  is  worse  than  you,  mademoiselle,  for  he 
has  known  Camac 's  family,  and  he  has  no  excuse. 
If  a  man  can't  win  his  fight  fairly  he  oughtn't  to 
be  in  public  life." 


282  Carnac's  Folly 

After  a  few  dark  moments,  with  a  sudden  burst 
of  feeling,  Luzanne  said:  **Well  Camac  won't  be 
out  of  public  life  through  me!" 

She  took  the  blue  certificate  from  her  breast  and 
was  about  to  tear  it  up,  when  Junia  stopped  her. 

''Don't  do  that,"  Junia  said,  ''don't  tear  it  up 
yet,  give  it  to  me.  I'll  tear  it  up  at  the  right  moment. 
Give  it  to  me,  my  dear." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  the  blue  certificate 
was  presently  in  her  fingers.  She  felt  a  sudden 
weakness  in  her  knees,  for  it  seemed  she  held  the 
career  of  Camac  Grier,  and  it  moved  her  as  she 
had  never  been  moved. 

With  the  yielding  of  the  certificate,  Luzanne 
seemed  suddenly  to  lose  self-control.  She  sank  on 
the  bed  beside  the  wall  with  a  cry  of  distress. 

'^Mon  Dieu — oh,  Mon  Dieu!'*  Then  she  sprang 
to  her  feet.  "Give  it  back,  give  it  back  to  me," 
she  cried,  with  frantic  pain.  "It's  all  I  have  of 
him — ^it's  all  I  have." 

"I  won't  give  it  back,"  declared  Junia  quietly. 
"It's  a  man's  career,  and  you  must  let  it  go.  It's 
the  right  thing  to  do.   Let  it  stand,  mademoiselle." 

She  fully  realized  the  half -insane  mind  and  pur- 


The  Blue  Paper     283 

pose  of  the  girl,  and  she  wrapped  her  arms  around 
the  stricken  figure. 

*'See,  my  dear,'*  she  said,  "it's  no  use.  You 
can't  have  it  back.  Your  soul  is  too  big  for  that 
now.  You  can  be  happy  in  the  memory  that  you 
gave  Camac  back  his  freedom." 

**But  the  record  stands,"  said  the  girl  help- 
lessly. 

''Tell  the  truth  and  have  it  removed.  You  owe 
that  to  the  man  who  saved  your  life.  Have  it  done 
at  once  at  Ship  ton." 

"What  will  you  do  with  the  certificate?"  She 
glanced  at  Junia's  bosom  where  the  paperwas  hidden. 

"I  will  give  it  to  Carnac,  and  he  can  do  what 
he  likes  with  it." 

By  now  the  tears  were  streaming  down  the  face 
of  Luzanne  Larue,  and  hard  as  it  was  for  Junia, 
she  tried  to  comfort  her,  for  the  girl  should  be  got 
away  at  once,  and  only  friendliness  could  achieve 
that.    She  would  see  Denzil — ^he  was  near  by  waiting. 

There  would  be  a  train  in  two  hours  for  New 
York  and  the  girl  must  take  it — she  must. 


Chapter  XXV     Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game 

B  ABODE  BAROUCHE  was  excited.  He  had 
sure  hope  of  defeating  Camac  with  the  help 
of  Luzaime  Lame.  The  woman  had  remained  hid- 
den since  her  coming,  and  the  game  was  now  in 
his  hands.  On  the  night  before  the  poll  he  could 
declare  the  thing,  not  easy  to,  be  forgiven,  by  the 
French-Canadian  public,  which  has  a  strong  sense 
of  domestic  duty.  Carnac  Grier  was  a  Protestant, 
and  that  was  bad,  and  if  there  was  added  an  offence 
against  domestic  morality,  he  would  be  beaten  at 
the  polls  as  sure  as  the  river  ran.  He  had  seen 
Luzanne  several  times,  and  though  he  did  not  believe 
in  her,  he  kaew  the  marriage  certificate  was  real. 
He  had  no  credence  in  Camac 's  lack  of  honour,  yet 
it  was  strange  he  had  not  fought  his  wife,  if  his  case 
was  a  good  one. 

Day  by  day  he  had  felt  Camac 's  power  growing, 
and  he  feared  his  triumph  unless  some  sensation 
stopped  it.  Well,  he  had  at  hand  the  sufficient  sen- 
sation. He  would  produce  both  the  certificate  of 
marriage  and  the  French  girl  who  was  the  legal 
284 


Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game  285 

wife  of  Carnac  Grier.  That  Luzaime  was  French 
helped  greatly,  for  it  would  be  used  by  Carnac 's 
foes  as  an  insult  to  French-Canada,  and  his  pulses 
throbbed  as  he  thought  of  the  possible  turmoil  in 
the  constituency. 

Fortunately  the  girl  was  handsome,  had  ability, 
and  spoke  English  with  a  French  accent  and  she 
was  powerful  for  his  purposes.  He  was  out  to  pre- 
vent his  own  son  from  driving  himself  into  private 
life,  and  he  would  lose  no  trick  in  the  game,  if  he 
could  help  it.  Sentimental  feeling — ^yes,  he  had  it, 
but  it  did  not  prevent  him  from  saving  his  own  skin. 
Carnac  had  come  out  against  him,  and  he  must  hit 
as  hard  as  he  could.  It  was  not  as  though  Carnac 
had  been  guilty  of  a  real  crime  and  was  within  the 
peril  of  the  law.  His  offence  was  a  personal  one,  but  it 
would  need  impossible  defence  at  the  moment  of 
election.  In  any  case,  if  Carnac  was  legally  married, 
he  should  assume  the  responsibilities  of  married  life ; 
and  if  he  had  honest  reason  for  not  recognizing  the 
marriage,  he  should  stop  the  woman  from  pursuing 
him.  If  the  case  kept  Carnac  out  of  public  life  and 
himself  in,  then  justice  would  be  done;  for  it  was 
monstrous  that  a  veteran  should  be  driven  into 
obscurity  by  a  boy.    In  making  his  announcement  he 


286  Carnac's  Folly 

would  be  fighting  his  son  as  though  he  was  a  stranger 
and  not  of  his  own  blood  and  bones.  He  had  no  per- 
sonal connection  with  Carnac  in  the  people's  minds. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  that  Junia  had  had 
her  hour  with  Luzanne,  he  started  for  the  house 
where  Luzanne  was  lodging.  He  could  not  travel 
the  streets  mthout  being  recognized,  but  it  did  not 
matter,  for  the  house  where  the  girl  lodged  was 
that  of  his  sub-agent,  and  he  was  safe  in  going  to  it. 
He  did  not  know,  however,  that  Denzil  had  been  told 
by  Junia  to  watch  the  place  and  learn  what  he  meant 
to  do. 

Denzil  had  a  popular  respect  of  Barode  Barouche 
as  a  Minister  of  the  Crown ;  but  he  had  a  far  greater 
love  of  Carnac.  He  remained  vigilant  until  after 
Junia  and  Luzanne  had  started  in  a  cab  for  the  rail- 
way-station. They  left  near  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  before  the  train  was  to  start  for  New  York; 
and  for  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  after  they  left 
Denzil  was  in  apprehension. 

Then  he  saw  Barouche  enter  the  street  and  go 
to  the  house  of  his  sub-agent.  The  house  stood 
by  itself,  with  windows  open,  and  Denzil  did  not 
scruple  to  walk  near  it,  and,  if  possible,  listen. 
Marmette,  the  sub-agent,  would  know  of  the  incident 


Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game  287 

between  Junia  and  Luzaime ;  and  he  feared  Barouche 
might  start  for  the  station,  overtake  Luzanne  and 
prevent  her  leaving.  He  drew  close  and  kept  his 
ears  open. 

He  was  fortunate,  he  heard  voices ;  Marmette  was 
explaining  to  Barouche  that  Junia  and  Luzanne  had 
gone  to  the  station,  as  **Ma'm'  selle"  was  bound  for 
New  York.  Marmette  had  sent  word  to  M.  Barouche 
by  messenger,  but  the  messenger  had  missed  him. 
Then  he  heard  Barouche  in  anger  say : 

**You  fool — ^why  did  you  let  her  leave!  It's  my 
bread  and  butter — and  yours  too — that's  at  stake. 
I  wanted  to  use  her  against  Grier.  She  was  my 
final  weapon  of  attack.  How  long  ago  did  she  leave  ? '  * 

Marmette  told  him. 

Denzil  saw  Barode  Barouche  leave  the  house,  with 
grim  concern  and  talking  hard  to  Paul  Marmette. 
He  knew  the  way  they  would  go,  so  he  fell  behind  a 
tree,  and  saw  them  start  for  the  place  where  they 
could  order  a  cab.  Then  he  followed  them.  Look- 
ing at  his  watch  he  saw,  that,  if  they  got  a  cab,  they 
would  get  to  the  station  before  the  train  started,  and 
he  wondered  how  he  could  retard  Barouche.  A  delay 
of  three  minutes  would  be  enough,  for  it  was  a  long 
way,  and  the  distance  could  only  be  covered  with 


288 Carnac's  Folly 

good  luck  in  the  time.  Yet  Denzil  had  hope,  for  his 
faith  in  Junia  was  great,  and  he  felt  sure  she  would 
do  what  she  planned.  He  had  to  trot  along  fast 
because  Barouche  and  Marmette  were  going  hard, 
and  he  could  not  see  his  way  to  be  of  use  yet.  He 
would  give  his  right  hand  to  help  Camac  win  against 
the  danger  Junia  had  suggested.  It  could  not  be 
aught  to  Camac 's  discredit,  or  Junia  would  not  have 
tried  to  get  danger  out  of  Montreal;  he  had  seen 
Luzanne,  and  she  might  be  deadly,  if  she  had  a 
good  weapon  I 

Presently,  he  saw  Barouche  and  his  agent  stop 
at  the  door  of  a  livery  stable,  and  were  told  that  no 
cabs  were  available.  There  were  none  in  the  street, 
and  time  was  pressing.  Not  far  away,  however,  was 
a  street  with  a  tram-line,  and  this  tram  would  take 
Barouche  near  the  station  from  which  Luzanne 
would  start.  So  Barouche  made  hard  for  this  street 
and  had  reached  it  when  a  phaeton  came  along,  and 
in  it  was  one  whom  Barouche  knew.  Barouche  spoke 
to  the  occupant,  and  presently  both  men  were  admit- 
ted to  the  phaeton  just  as  a  tram-car  came  near. 

As  the  phaeton  would  make  the  distance  to  the 
station  in  less  time  than  the  car,  this  seemed  the 
sensible  thing  to  do,  and  Denzils  spirits  fell.    There 


Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game  289 

remained  enough  time  for  Barouche  to  reach  the 
station  before  the  New  York  train  started  I  He  got 
aboard  the  tram  himself,  and  watched  the  phaeton 
moving  quickly  on  ahead.  .  He  saw  the  driver  of 
the  phaeton  strike  his.  horse  with  a  whip,  and  the 
horse,  suddenly  breaking  into  a  gallop  slipped  and 
fell  to  the  ground  on  the  tram-track.  A  moment 
later  the  tram  came  to  a  stop  behind  the  fallen  horse, 
and  Denzil  saw  the  disturbed  face  of  Bar  ode 
Barouche  looking  for  another  trap — ^in  any  case,  it 
would  take  three  or  four  minutes  to  get  the  horse 
up  and  clear  the  track  for  the  tram.  There  was  no 
carriage  in  sights — only  a  loaded  butcher's  cart,  a 
road-cleaner,  and  a  heavily  loaded  van.  These  could 
be  of  no  use  to  Barouche. 

In  his  corner,  Denzil  saw  the  play  with  anxious 
eyes.  It  was  presently  found  that  the  horse  had 
injured  a  leg  in  falling  and  could  not  be  got  to 
its  feet,  but  had  presently  to  be  dragged  from  the 
tram-lines.  It  had  all  taken  near  five  minutes  of 
the  time  before  the  train  went,  and,  with  despair, 
Barouche  mounted  the  steps  of  the  tram.  He  saw 
Denzil,  and  shrewdly  suspected  he  was  working  in 
the  interests  of  Carnac.  He  came  forward  to  Denzil. 
19 


290  Carnac's  Folly 

**You're  a  long  way  from  home,  little  maa," 
he  said  in  a  voice  with  an  acid  note. 

"About  the  same  as  you  from  home,  m'sieu'," 
said  Denzil. 

**IVe  got  business  everywhere  in  this  town," 
remarkedBarouchewith  sarcasm — '  *  and  you  haven't, 
have  you  ?    You  're  travelling  privately,  eh  ? " 

**I  travel  as  m'sieu'  travels,  and  on  the  same 
business, ' '  answered  Denzil  with  a  challenging  smile. 

The  look  Barouche  gave  him  then,  Denzil  never 
forgot.  *'I  didn't  know  you  were  in  politics,  mori 
vieuxl  What  are  you  standing  for?  When  are  you 
going  to  the  polls — who  are  you  fighting,  eh?" 

"I'm  fighting  you,  m'sieu',  though  I  ain't  in  poli- 
tics, andl  'm  going  to  the  polls  now, ' '  Denzil  answered. 

Denzil  had  gained  confidence  as  he  saw  the  arro- 
gance of  Barode  Barouche.  He  spoke  with  more 
vigour  than  usual,  and  he  felt  his  gorge  rising,  for 
here  was  a  man  trying  to  injure  his  political  foe 
through  a  woman;  and  Denzil  resented  it.  He  did 
not  know  the  secret  of  Luzanne  Larue,  but  he  did 
realize  there  was  conflict  between  Junia  Shale  and 
Barouche,  and  between  Barouche  and  Camac  Grier, 
and  that  enlisted  his  co-operation.  By  nature  he 
was  respectful;  but  the  politician  now  was  playing 


THERE  S   ONLY    ONE   THING    AND    ONE    PEKSON   TQ   TALK 
ABOUT,    MA'm'sELLB  " 


Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game  291 

a  dirty  game,  and  he  himself  might  fight  without 
gloves,  if  needed.  That  was  why  his  eyes  showed 
defiance  at  Barouche  now.  He  had  said  the  thing 
which  roused  sharp  anger  in  Barouche.  It  told 
Barouche  that  Denzil  knew  where  he  was  going  and 
why.  Anger  shook  him  as  he  saw  Denzil  take  out 
his  watch. 

**The  poll  closes  in  three  minutes,  m'sieu*,'* 
Denzil  added  with  a  dry  smile,  for  it  was  clear 
Barouche  could  not  reach  the  station  in  time,  if  the 
train  left  promptly.  The  swiftest  horses  could  not 
get  him  there,  and  these  were  not  the  days  of  motor- 
cars. Yet  it  was  plain  Barouche  meant  to  stick  to  it, 
and  he  promptly  said : 

**You  haven't  the  right  time,  beetle.  The  poll 
closes  only  when  the  train  leaves,  and  your  watch 
doesn't  show  that,  so  don't  put  on  airs  yet." 

"I'll  put  on  airs  if  I've  won,  m'sieu',"  Denzil 
answered  quietly,  for  he  saw  people  in  the  tram  were 
trying  to  hear. 

Barouche  had  been  recognized,  and  a  murmur  of 
cheering  began,  followed  by  a  hum  of  disapproval, 
for  Barouche  had  lost  many  friends  since  Carnac 
had  come  into  the  fray.  A  few  folk  tried  to  engage 
Barouche  in  talk,  but  he  responded  casually ;  yet  he 


292 Carnac's  Folly 

smiled  the  smile  which  had  done  so  much  for  him 
in  public  life,  and  the  distance  lessened  to  the  station. 
The  tram  did  not  go  quite  to  the  station,  and  as  it 
stopped,  the  two  men  hurried  to  the  doors.  As  they 
did  so,  an  engine  gave  a  scream,  andpresently,  as  they 
[reached  the  inside  of  the  station,  they  saw  passing 
out  at  the  far  end,  the  New  York  train. 

*  *  She  started  five  minutes  late,  but  she  did  start, ' ' 
said  Denzil,  and  there  was  malice  in  his  smile. 

As  he  looked  at  his  watch,  he  saw  Junia  passing 
out  of  a  door  into  the  street,  but  Barode  Barouche 
did  not  see  her — his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  depar1> 
ing  train.  For  a  moment  Barouche  stood  indeci- 
eive  as  to  whether  he  should  hire  a  locomotive  and 
send  some  one  after  the  train,  and  so  get  in  touch 
with  Luzanne  in  that  way,  or  send  her  a  telegram 
to  the  first  station  where  the  train  would  stop  in 
its  schedule ;  but  presently  he  gave  up  both  ideas.  As 
he  turned  towards  the  exit  of  the  station,  he  saw 
Dentil,  and  he  came  forward. 

**I  think  youVe  won,  mon  petit  chien,"  he  said 
with  vindictiveness,  **but  my  poll  comes  to-morrow 
night,  and  I  shall  win." 

"No,  game  is  won  till  it's  all  played,  m'sieu',  and 
this  innings  is  mine !" 


Denzil  takes  a  Hand  in  the  Game  293 

"I  am  fighting  a  bigger  maa  tlian  you,  wasp," 
snarled  Barouche. 

"As  big  as  yourself  and  bigger,  m'sieu',''  said 
Denzil  with  a  smile. 

There  was  that  in  his  tone  which  made  Barouche 
regard  him  closely.  He  saw  there  was  no  real  know- 
ledge o;f  the  relationship  of  Garnac  and  himself 
in  Denzil's  eyes ;  but  he  held  out  his  hand  with  imita- 
tion courtesy,  as  though  to  say  good-bye. 

**Give  me  a  love-clasp,  spider,"  he  said  with  a 
kind  of  sneer.  **I'd  like  your  love  as  I  travel 
to  triumph." 

A  light  of  hatred  came  into  Denzil 's  eyes. 
** Beetle — dog — wasp — spider/'  he  had  been  called 
by  this  big  man — ^well,  he  should  see  that  the  wasp 
could  give  as  good  as  it  got.  His  big  gnarled  hand 
enclosed  the  hand  of  Barode  Barouche,  then  he  sud- 
denly closed  on  it  tight.  He  closed  on  it  till  he  felt 
it  crunching  in  his  own  and  saw  that  the  face  of 
Barode  Barouche  was  like  that  of  one  in  a  chair  of 
torture.  He  squeezed,  till  from  Barouche 's  lips  came 
a  gasp  of  agony,  and  then  he  let  go. 

** You've  had  my  love-clasp,  m'sieu',"  Denzil 
said  with  meaning,  "and  when  you  want  it  again 
let  me  know.    It's  what  M'sieu'  Carnac  will  do  with 


294-  Carnac's  Folly 

you  to-morrow  night.  Only  he'll  not  let  go,  as  I 
did,  before  the  blood  comes.  Don't  be  hard  on  those 
nnder  yon,  m'sieu*.  Remember  wasps  and  spiders 
can  sting  in  their  own  way,  and  that  dogs  can  bite." 

"Little  black  beast,"  was  the  short  reply,  "I'll 
stripe  your  hide  for  Hell's  gridiron  in  good  time." 

"Bien,  m'sieu',  but  you'll  be  in  hell  waiting,  for 
I'm  going  to  bury  you  here  where  you  call  better 
men  than  yourself  dogs  and  wasps  and  spiders  and 
beetles.  And  I'll  not  strip  your  *hide,'  either.  That's 
for  lower  men  than  me." 

A  moment  later  they  parted,  Denzil  to  find  Junia, 
and  Barouche  to  prepare  his  speech  for  the  evening. 
Barouche  pondered.  What  should  he  do — should  he 
challenge  Camac  with  his  marriage  with  Luzanne 
Larue?    His  heart  was  beating  hard. 


Chapter  XXVI  The  Challenge 

THE  day  of  the  Election  came.  Never  had  feel- 
ing run  higher,  never  had  racial  lines  been 
so  cut  across.  Barode  Barouche  fought  with  vigour, 
but  from  the  going  of  Luzanne  Larue,  there  passed 
from  him  the  confidence  he  had  felt  since  the  first 
day  of  Camac's  candidature.  He  had  had  tempta- 
tion to  announce  to  those  who  heard  him  the  night 
before  the  poll  what  Luzanne  had  told;  but  better 
wisdom  guided  him,  to  his  subsequent  content.  He 
had  not  played  a  scurvy  trick  on  his  son  for  his  own 
personal  advantage.  Indeed,  when  his  meetings 
were  all  over,  he  was  thankful  for  the  disappear- 
ance of  Luzanne.  At  heart  he  was  not  all  bad. 
A  madness  had  been  on  him.  He  therefore,  slept 
heavily  from  mid-night  till  morning  on  the  eve  of  the 
election,  and  began  the  day  with  the  smile  of  one  whot» 
abides  the  result  with  courage. 

Several  times  he  came  upon  Camac  in  the  streets, 
and  they  saluted  courteously;  yet  he  saw  the  con- 
fidence of  Camac  in  his  bearing.  Twice  also  he  came 
upon  Junia  and  he  was  startled  by  the  look  she  gave 

295 


296  Carnac's  Folly 

him.  It  was  part  of  his  punishment  that  Junia  was 
the  SQurce  of  his  undoing  where  Luzanne  was  con- 
cerned. Junia  knew  about  Luzanne ;  but  if  she  con- 
demned him  now,  what  would  she  think,  if  she  knew 
that  Camac  was  his  own  son ! 

**A  devilish  clever  girl  that,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "If  he  wins,  it'll  be  due  to  her,  and  if  he 
wins — no,  he  can't  marry  her,  for  he's  already  mar- 
ried; but  he'll  owe  it  all  to  her.  If  he  winsl  .  .  . 
No,  he  shall  not  win;  I've  been  in  the  game  too 
long;  I've  served  too  many  interests;  I've  played 
too  big  a  part." 

It  was  then  he  met  his  agent,  who  said :  * '  They're 
making  strong  play  against  us — the  strongest  since 
you  began  politics." 

** Strong  enough  to,  put  us  in  danger?"  inquired 
Barouche.  "You've  been  at  the  game  here  for 
thirty  years,  and  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  think 
— quite  honestly." 

His  agent  was  disturbed.  "I  think  you're  in 
danger;  he  has  all  your  gifts,  and  he's  as  clever 
as  Old  Nick  besides.  He's  a  man  that'll  make 
things  hum,  if  he  gets  in." 

**If  he  gets  in— you  think  .  .  .  ?" 

"He  has   as   good  a  chance  as  you,  m'sieu'. 


The  Challenge  297 


Here's  a  list  of  doubtful  ones,  and  you'll  see  they're 
of  consequence." 

''They  are  indeed,"  said  Barouche,  scanning  the 
list.    * 'I'd  no  idea  these  would  be  dQubtful." 

*'Luke  Tarboe's  working  like  the  devil  for 
Camac.  People  believe  in  him.  Half  the  men  on 
that  list  were  affected  by  Tarboe's  turning  over. 
Tarboe  is  a  master-man;  he  has  fought  like  hell." 

** Nevertheless,  I've  been  too  long  at  it  to  miss 
it  now, ' '  said  the  rueful  member  with  a  forced  smile. 
**I  must  win  now,  or  my  game  is  up." 

The  agent  nodded,  but  there  was  no  certainty 
in  his  eye.  Feeling  ran  higher  'and  higher,  but 
there  was  no  indication  that  Barouche 's  hopes  were 
sure  of  fulfilment.  His  face  became  paler  as 
the  day  wore  on,  and  his  hands  freer  with  those 
of  his  late  constituents.  Yet  he  noticed  that  Carnac 
was  still  glib  with  his  tongue  and  freer  with  his 
hands.  Camac  seemed  everywhere,  on  every  comer, 
in  every  street,  at  every  polling  booth  he  laid  his 
trowel  against  every  brick  in  the  wall. 

Carnac  was  not  as  confident  as  he  seemed,  but 
he  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  trail;  and  his  feet 
were  free  and  his  head  clear.  One  good  thing  had 
happened.     The  girl  who  could  do  him  great  harm 


298  Carnac's  Folly 


was  not  in  evidence,  and  it  was  too  late  to  spoil 
his  chances  now,  even  if  she  came.  What  gave  him 
greatest  hope  was  the  look  on  Junia's  face  as  he 
passed  her.  It  was  the  sign  of  the  conqueror — 
sopiething  he  could  not  understand.  It  was  know- 
ledge and  victory. 

Also,  he  had  a  new  feeling  towards  Tarboe,  who 
had  given  him  such  powerful  support.  There 
was,  then,  in  the  man  the  bigger  thing,  the  light 
of  fairness  and  reason  I  He  had  had  no  talk  with 
Tarboe,  and  he  desired  none,  but  he  had  seen  him 
at  three  of  his  meetings,  and  he  had  evidence  of 
arduous  effort  on  his  behalf.  Tarboe  had  influenced 
many  people  in  his  favour,  men  of  standing  and 
repute,  and  the  workmen  of  the  Grier  firm  had 
come,  or  were  coming,  his  way.  He  had  always  been 
popular  mth  them,  in  spite  of  the  strike  he  had 
fought,  but  they  voted  independently  of  their  employ- 
ers ;  and  he  was  glad  to  know  that  most  of  them  were 
with  him  in  the  fight. 

His  triumph  over  Eugene  Grandois  at  the  Island, 
had  been  a  good  influence,  and  he  had  hopes  of 
capturing  the  majority  of  the  river  people.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  the  Church  had  somewhat  reversed 
its  position,  and,  at  the  last  had  swung  round  tQ 


The  Challenge  299 


Barouche,  quietly,  though  not  from  the  pulpit,  sup- 
porting him.  The  ancient  prejudice  in  favour  of 
a  Catholic  and  a  Frenchman  was  alive  again. 

Camae  was  keyed  t0|  anxiety,  but  outwardly 
seemed  moving  with  brilliant  certainty.  He  walked 
on  air,  and  he  spoke  and  acted  like  one  who  had 
the  key  of  the  situation  in  his  fingers,  and  the  but- 
ton of  decision  at  his  will.  It  was  folly  election- 
eering on  the  day  of  the  poll,  and  yet  he  saw  a  few; 
labour  leaders  and  moved  them  to  greater  work  for 
him.  One  of  these  told  him  that  at  the  Grier  big- 
mill  was  one  man  working  to  defeat  him  by  personal 
attacks.  It  had  something  to  do  with  a  so-called 
secret  marriage,  and  it  would  be  good  to  get  hold 
of  the  man,  Eoudin,  as  soon  as  possible. 

A  secret  marriage!  So  the  thing  had,  after  all, 
been  bruited  and  used — ^what  was  the  source  of  the 
information?  Who  was  responsible?  He  must  go 
to  the  Tnill  at  once,  and  he  started  for  it.  On  the 
way  he  met  Luke  Tarboe. 

** There's  trouble  down  at  the  mill,'*  Tarboe  said. 
**A  fellow  called  Roudin  has  been  spreading  a  story 
that  you're  married  and  repudiate  your  wife.  It'd 
be  good  to  fight  it  now  before  it  gets  going.  There's 
no  truth  in  it,  of  course,"  he  added  with  an  opposite 


300  Carnac's  Folly 

look  in  his  eye,  for  he  remembered  the  letter  Carnao 
received  one  day  in  the  ofl&ce  and  his  own  conclu- 
sion then. 

**It's  a  lie,  and  I'll  go  and  see  Roudin  at  once. 
.  .  .  You've  been  a  good  friend  to  me  in  the  fight, 
Tarboe,  and  I'd  like  a  talk  when  it's  all  over." 

"That'll  be  easy  enough,  Grier.  Don't  make 
any  mistake — ^this  is  a  big  thing  you're  doing;  and 
if  a  Protestant  Britisher  can  beat  a  CathoUc  French- 
man in  his  own  habitant  seat,  it's  the  clinching  of 
Confederation.  We'll  talk  it  over  when  you've  won." 

**You  think  I'm  going  to  win?"  asked  Carnac 
with  thumping  heart,  for  the  stark  uncertainty 
seemed  to  overpower  him,  though  he  smiled. 

"If  the  lie  doesn't  get  going  too  hard,  I'm  sure 
you'll  pull  it  off.  There's  my  hand  on  it.  I'd  go 
down  with  you  to  the  mill,  but  you  should  go  alone. 
You've  got  your  own  medicine  to  give.  Go  it  alone, 
Grier.    It's  best — and  good  luck  to  you  I" 

A  few  moments  later  Carnac  was  in  the  yard  of 
the  mill,  and  in  one  comer  he  saw  the  man  he  took 
to  be  Roudin  talking  to  a  group  of  workmen.  He 
hurried  over,  and  heard  Roudin  declaring  that  he, 
Carnac,  was  secretly  married  to  a  woman  whom  he 
repudiated,  and  was  that  the  kind  of  man  to  have 


The  Challenge  301 


as  member  of  Parliament?  Presently  Roudin  was 
interrupted  by  cheers  from  supporters  of  Camao, 
and  he  saw  it  was  due  to  Carnac's  arrival.  Roudin 
had  courage.  He  would  not  say  behind  a  man's 
back  what  he  would  not  say  to  his  face. 

"I  was  just  telling  my  friends  here,  m'sieu', 
that  you  was  married,  and  you  didn't  acknowledge 
your  wife.    Is  that  so?" 

Carnac's  first  impulse  was  to  say  No,  but  he 
gained  time  by  challenging. 

"Why  do  you  say  such  things  to  injure  me?  Is 
that  what  Monsieur  Barouche  tells  you  to  say?" 

Roudin  shook  his  head  protestingly. 

**If  M.  Barouche  does  that  he  oughtn't  to  hold 
the  seat,  he  ought  to  be  sent  back  to  his  law  offices." 

"No,  I  didn't  hear  it  from  M'sieu'  Barouche. 
I  get  it  from  better  hands  than  his,"  answered 
Roudin. 

"Better  hands  than  his,  eh?  From  the  lady  her- 
self, perhaps?" 

"Yes,  from  the  lady  herself,  m'sieu'." 

"Then  bring  the  lady  here  and  let  us  have  it 
out,  monsieur.  It's  a  lie.  Bring  the  lady  here,  if 
you  know  her." 

Roudin  shrugged  a  shoulder.     "I  know  what  I 


302  Carnac's  Folly 

know,  and  I  don't  have  to  do  what  you  Bay — 
hien  surl'* 

"Then  you're  not  honest.  You  do  me  harm  by 
a  story  like  that,  I  challenge  you,  and  you  don't 
respond.  You  say  you  know  the  woman,  then  produce 
her — there 's  no  time  to  be  lost.  The  poU  closes  in  four 
hours.  If  you  make  such  statements,  prove  them. 
It  isn't  playing  the  game — do  you  think  so,  mes- 
sieurs?" he  added  to  the  crowd  which  had  grown 
in  numbers. 

At  that  moment  a  man  came  running  from  the 
entrance  towards  Camao.    It  was  Denzil. 

"A  letter  for  you,  an  important  letter,"  he  kept 
crying  as  he  came  nearer.  He  got  the  letter  injto 
Camac's  hands. 

**Eead  it  at  once,  m'sieu',"  Denzil  said  urgently. 

Camao  saw  the  handwriting  was  Junia's,  and 
he  tore  open  the  letter,  which  held  the  blue  certifi- 
cate of  the  marriage  with  Luzanne.  He  conquered 
the  sudden  dimness  of  his  eyes,  and  read  the  letter. 
It  said: 

"Deab  Cabnac, — 

**I  hear  from  Mr.  Tarboe  of  the  lies  being  told 

against  you.    Here  is  the  proof.    She  has  gone. 

She  told  it  to  Barode  Barouche,  and  he  was  to  have 

announced  it  last  night,  but  I  saw  her  first.    You 


The  Challenge  303 

can  now  deny  the  story.  The  game  is  yours.  Tell 
the  man  Eoudin  to  produce  the  woman — she  is  now 
in  New  York,  if  the  train  was  not  lost.  I  will  tell 
you  all  when  your  are  M.P. 

With  a  smile,  Camac  placed  the  certificate  in 
his  pocket.  How  lucky  it  was  he  had  denied  the 
marriage  and  demanded  that  Roudin  produce  the 
woman  I  He  was  safe  now,  safe  and  free.  It  was 
no  good  any  woman  declaring  she  was  married  to 
him,  if  she  could  not  produce  the  proof — and  the 
proof  was  in  his  pocket  and  the  woman  was  in 
New  York. 

* '  Come,  Monsieur  Roudin,  tell '  us  about  the 
woman,  and  bring  her  to  the  polls.  There  is  yet 
time,  if  you're  telling  the  truth.  Who  is  sheT 
Where  does  she  live?    What's  her  name?" 

**Mrs.  Camac  Grier — that's  her  name,"  re- 
sponded Roudin  with  a  snarl,  and  the  crowd  laughed, 
for  Camac 's  boldness  gave  them  a  sense  of  security. 

"What  was  her  maiden  name?" 

** Larue,"  answered  the  other  sharply. 

**  What  was  her  Christian  name,  since  you  know 
so  much,  monsieur?" 

He  had  no  fear  now,  and  his  question  was 
audacity,  but  he  knew  the  game  was  with  him,  and 


304  Carnac's  Folly 

he  took  the  risks.  His  courage  had  reward,  for 
Roudin  made  no  reply.     Carnao  turned  to  the  crowd. 

"Here's  a  man  tried  to  ruin  my  character  by  tel- 
ling a  story  about  a  woman  whose  name  he  doesn't 
know.  Is  that  playing  the  game  after  the  rules — 
I  ask  you?" 

There  were  cries  from  the  crowd  supporting 
him,  and  he  grew  bolder.  **Let  the  man  tell  his 
story  and  I'll  meet  it  here  face  to  face.  I  fear 
nothing.  Out  with  your  story,  monsieur.  Tell  us 
why  you  haven't  brought  her  into  that  daylight, 
why  she  isn't  claiming  her  husband  at  the  polls. 
What's  the  story?    Let's  have  it  now.'* 

The  truth  was  Roudin  dared  not  tell  what  he 
knew.  It  was  based  wholly  on  a  talk  he  had  partly 
overheard  between  Barode  Barouche  and  Luzanne 
in  the  house  where  she  stayed  and  where  he,  Roudin, 
lodged.  It  had  not  been  definite,  and  he  had  no 
proofs.  He  was  a  sensationalist,  and  he  had  had 
his  hour  and  could  say  no  more,  because  of  Barode 
Barouche.  He  could  not  tell  the  story  of  his  over- 
hearing, for  why  had  not  Barouche  told  the  tale? 
With  an  oath  he  turned  away  and  disappeared.  As 
he  went  he  could  hear  his  friends  cheering  Carnac. 

"Camac  Grier  lies,  but  he  wins  the  game," 
he  said. 


Chapter  XXVII Exit 

GRIER'S  in — Camac's  in — Camac's  got  the 
seat!" 

This  was  the  cry  heard  in  the  streets  at  ten- 
tMrty  at  night  when  Camac  was  found  elected  by 
a  majority  of  one  hundred  and  ten. 

Carnao  had  not  been  present  at  the  counting 
of  the  votes  until  the  last  quarter-hour,  and  then 
he  was  told  by  his  friends  of  the  fluctuations  of  the 
counting — how  at  one  time  his  defeat  seemed  assured, 
since  Barode  Barouche  was  six  hundred  ahead,  and 
his  own  friends  had  almost  given  up  hope  One  of 
his  foes,  however,  had  no  assurance  of  Camac's 
defeat.  He  was  too  old  an  agent  to  believe  in  re- 
turns till  all  were  in,  and  he  knew  of  the  two  inci- 
dents by  which  Camac  had  got  advantage — at  the 
Island  over  Eugene  Grandois,  and  at  the  Mill  over 
Roudin  t*he  very  day  of  the  polling;  and  it  was  at 
these  points  he  had  hoped  to  score  for  Barouche  a 
majority.  He  watched  Barouche,  and  he  deplored 
the  triumph  in  his  eye,  for  there  was  no  surety 

of  winning,  his  own  was  the  scientific  mind  without 
20  305 


3o6  Carnac's  Folly 

emotions  or  passions.  He  did  not  ** enthuse,"  and 
he  did  not  despair ;  he  kept  his  head. 

Presently  there  were  fluctuations  in  favour  of 
Carnac,  and  the  six  hundred  by  which  Barouche 
led  were  steadily  swallowed  up ;  he  saw  that  among 
the  places  which  gave  Carnac  a  majority  were  the 
Island  and  the  Mill.  He  was  also  nonplussed  by 
Carnac's  coolness.  For  a  man.  with  an  artist's 
temperament,  he  was  well-controlled.  When  he 
came  into  the  room,  he  went  straight  to  Barouche 
and  shook  hands  with  him,  saying  they'd  soon  offer 
congratulations  to  the  winner.  As  the  meeting  took 
place  the  agent  did  not  fail  to  note  how  alike  in 
build  and  manner  were  the  two  men,  how  similar 
were  their  gestures. 

When  at  last,  the  Eeturning  Officer  announced 
the  result,  the  agent  dared  not  glance  at  his  defeated 
chief.    Yet  he  saw  him  go  to  Carnac  and  offer  a  hand. 

** We've  had  a  straight  fight,  Grier,  and  I  hope 
you'll  have  luck  in  Parliament.  This  is  no  place 
for  me.  It's  your  game,  and  I'll  eat  my  sour 
bread  alone." 

He  motioned  to  the  window  with  a  balcony, 
beyond  which  were  the  shouting  thousands.  Then 
he  smiled  at  Carnac,  and  in  his  heart  he  was  glad 


Exit  307 

lie  had  not  used  the  facts  about  Luzanne  before  the 
public.  The  boy's  face  was  so  glowing  that  his  own 
youth  came  back,  and  a  better  spirit  took  residence 
in  him.  He  gave  thanks  to  the  Returning  Officer, 
and  then,  with  his  agent,  left  the  building  by  the 
back  door.  He  did  not  wait  for  the  announcement 
of  Camac's  triumph,  and  he  knew  his  work  was 
done  for  ever  in  public  life. 

Soon  he  had  said  his  say  at  the  club  where  his 
supporters,  discomfited,  awaited  him.  To  demands 
for  a  speech,  he  said  he  owed  to  his  workers  what 
he  could  never  repay,  and  that  the  long  years  they 
had  kept  him  in  Parliament  would  be  the  happiest 
memory  of  his  life. 

"We'll  soon  have  you  back,"  shouted  a  voice 
from  the  crowd. 

"It's  been  a  good  fight,"  said  Barode  Barouche. 
Somehow  the  fact  he  had  not  beaten  his  son  by  the 
story  of  his  secret  marriage  was  the  sole  comfort 
he  had.  He  advised  his  followers  to  "play  the 
game"  and  let  the  new  member  have  his  triumph 
without  belittlement. 

"It's  the  best  fight  I've  had  in  thirty  years,"  he 
said  at  last,  "and  I've  been  beaten  fairly." 

In  another  hour  he  was  driving  into  the  country 


3o8  Carnac's  Folly 


on  his  way  to  visit  an  old  ex-Cabinet  Minister,  who 
had  been  his  friend  through  all  the  years  of  his 
Parliamentary  life.  It  did  not  matter  that  the  hour 
was  late.  He  knew  the  veteran  would  be  waiting 
for  him,  and  unprepared  for  the  bad  news  he  brought. 
The  night  was  spent  in  pain  of  mind,  and  the  com- 
fort the  ex-Minister  gave  him,  that  a  seat  would  be 
found  for  him  by  the  Government,  gave  him  no  thrill. 
He  knew  he  had  enemies  in  the  Government,  that 
the  Prime  Minister  was  the  friend  of  the  successful 
only,  and  that  there  were  others,  glad  of  his  defeat, 
who  would  be  looking  for  his  place.  Also  he  was 
sure  he  had  injured  the  chances  of  the  Government 
by  the  defeat  of  his  policy. 

As  though  Creation  was  in  league  against  him, 
a  heavy  storm  broke  about  two  o'clock,  and  he  went 
to  bed  cursed  by  torturing  thoughts.  **  Chickens 
come  home  to  roost — "  Why  did  that  ancient 
phrase  keep  rin^ng  in  his  ears  when  he  tried  to 
sleep?  Beaten  by  his  illegitimate  son  at  the  polls, 
the  victim  of  his  own  wrong-doing — ^the  sacrifice 
of  penalty  I  He  knew  that  his  son,  inheriting  his 
own  political  gifts,  had  done  what  could  have  been 
done  by  no  one  else.  All  the  years  passed  since 
Camac  was  begotten  laid  their  deathly  hands  upon 


Exit  309 

him,  and  he  knew  he  could  never  recover  from  this 
defeat.  How  much  better  it  would  have  been  if 
he  had  been  struck  twenty-seven  years  ago  I 

Youth,  ambition  and  resolve  would  have  saved 
him  from  the  worst  then.  Age  has  its  powers,  but 
it  has  its  defects,  and  he  had  no  hope  that  his 
own  defects  would  be  wiped  out  by  luck  at  the  polls. 
Spirit  was  gone  out  of  him,  longing  for  the  future 
had  no  place  in  his  mind ;  in  the  world  of  public  work 
he  was  dead  and  buried.  How  little  he  had  got 
from  all  his  life !  How  few  friends  he  had,  and  how 
few  he  was  entitled  to  have!  This  is  one  of  the 
punishments  that  selfishness  and  wrong-doing 
brings ;  it  gives  no  insurance  for  the  hours  of  defeat 
and  loss.  Well,  wealth  and  power,  the  friends  so 
needed  in  dark  days,  had  not  been  made,  and  Barode 
Barouche  realized  he  had  naught  left.  He  had  been 
too  successful  from  the  start;  he  had  had  all  his 
own  way;  and  he  had  taken  no  pains  to  make  or 
keep  friends.  He  well  knew  there  was  no  man  in 
the  Cabinet  or  among  his  colleagues  that  would  stir 
to  help  him — ^he  had  stirred  to  help  no  man  in  all 
the  years  he  had  served  the  public.  It  was  no 
good  only  to  serve  the  public,  for  democracy  is  a 
weak  stick  on  which  to  lean.    One  must  stand  by 


3IO  Carnac's  Folly _ 

individuals  or  there  is  no  defence  against  the  mali- 
cious foes  that  follow  the  path  of  defeat,  that  ambush 
the  way.  It  is  the  personal  friends  made  in  one's 
own  good  days  that  watch  the  path  and  clear 
away  the  ambushers.  It  is  not  big  influential 
friends  that  are  so  important — the  little  unknown 
man  may  be  as  useful  as  the  big  boss  in  the  mill 
of  life;  and  if  one  stops  to  measure  one's  friends 
by  their  position  the  end  is  no  more  sure  than  if 
one  makes  no  friends  at  all. 

** There's  nothing  left  for  me  in  life — ^nothing 
at  all,"  he  said  as  he  tossed  in  bed,  while  the  thunder 
roared  and  the  storm  beat  down  the  shrubs.  **How 
futile  life  is — *  Youth's  a  dream,  middle  age  a  delu- 
sion, old  age  a  mistake ! '  "he  kept  repeating  to  him- 
self in  quotation.  *  'What  does  one  get  out  of  it?  Noth- 
ing— ^nothing — nothing!  It's  all  a  poor  show  at 
the  best,  and  yet — ^is  it?  Is  it  all  so  bad?  Is  it  all 
so  poor  and  gaunt  and  hopeless?  Isn't  there  any- 
thing in  it  for  the  man  who  gives  and  does  his  best? ' ' 

Suddenly  there  came  upon  him  the  conviction 
that  life  is  only  futile  to  the  futile,  that  it  is  only  a 
failure  to  those  who  prove  themselves  incompetent, 
selfish  and  sordid;  but  to  those  who  live  life  as 
it  ought  to  be  lived,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  fail- 


Exit  3 1 1 

ure,  or  defeat,  or  penalty,  or  remorse,  or  punishineiit. 
Because  the  straight  man  has  only  good  ends  to 
serve,  he  has  no  failures ;  though  he  may  have  dis- 
appointments, he  has  no  defeats;  for  the  true  secret 
of  life  is  to  be  content  with  what  is  decreed,  to  earn 
bread  and  make  store  only  as  conscience  directs,  and 
not  to  set  one's  heart  on  material  things. 

He  got  out  of  bed  soon  after  daylight,  dressed, 
and  went  to  the  stable  and  hitched  his.  horse  to  the 
buggy.  The  world  was  washed  clean,  that  was  sure. 
It  was  muddy  under  foot,  but  it  was  a  country  where 
the  roads  soon  dried,  and  he  would  suffer  little 
inconvenience  from  the  storm.  He  bade  his  host 
good-bye  and  drove  away  intent  to  reach  the  city 
in  time  for  breakfast.  He  found  the  roads  heavy, 
and  the  injury  of  the  storm  was  everywhere  to  be 
seen.  Yet  it  all  did  not  distract  him,  for  he  was 
thinking  hard  of  the  things  that  lay  ahead  of  him 
to  do — ^the  heart-breaking  things  that  his  defeat 
meant  to  him. 

At  last  he  approached  a  bridge  across  a  stream 
which  had  been  badly  swept  by  the  storm.  It  was 
one  of  the  covered  bridges  not  uncommon  in  Canada. 
It  was  not  long,  as  the  river  was  narrow,  and  he 
did  not  see  that  the  middle  pier  of  the  bridge  had 


312  Carnac's  Folly 

been  badly  injured.  Yet  as  he  entered  the  bridge,  his 
horse  still  trotting,  he  was  conscious  of  a  hollow, 
semi-thunderous  noise  which  seemed  not  to  belong 
to  the  horse's  hoofs  and  the  iron  wheels  of  the  car- 
raige.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  see  that  the  other  end 
of  the  bridge  was  clear,  and  at  that  moment  he  was 
conscious  of  an  unsteady  motion  of  the  bridge,  of 
a  wavering  of  the  roof,  and  then,  before  he  had  time 
to  do  aught,  he  saw  the  roof,  and  the  sides  and  the 
floor  of  the  bridge  collapse  and  sink  slowly  down. 

With  a  cry,  he  sprang  from  the  carriage  to  retrace 
his  way ;  but  he  only  climbed  up  a  ladder  that  grew 
every  instant  steeper ;  and  all  at  once  he  was  plunged 
downwards  after  his  horse  and  carriage  into  the 
stream.  He  could  swim,  and  as  he  swept  down  this 
thought  came  to  him — that  he  might  be  able  to  get 
the  shore,  as  he  heard  the  cries  of  people  on  the 
bank.  It  was  a  hope  that  died  at  the  moment  of 
its  birth,  however,  for  he  was  struck  by  a  falling 
timber  on  the  head. 

When,  an  hour  later,  he  was  found  in  an  eddy 
of  the  river  by  the  shore,  he  was  dead,  and  his 
finders  could  only  compose  his  limbs  decently.  But 
in  the  afternoon,  the  papers  of  Montreal  had  the 
following  head-lines; 


Exit 313 

DEFEAT  AND  DEATH  OF  BARODE  BAROUCHE  THE 
END  OF  A  LONG  AND  GREAT  CAREER 

As  soon  as  Camac  Grier  heard  the  news,  he 
sent  a  note  to  his  mother  telling  her  all  he  knew. 
When  she  read  the  letter,  she  sank  to  the)  floor, 
overcome.    Her  son  had  triumphed  indeed. 


Chapter  XXVIII  A  Woman  writes  a  Letter 

THE  whole  country  rang  with  the  defeat  and 
death  of  Bar  ode  Barouche,  and  the  triumph 
of  the  disinherited  son  of  John  Grier.  Newspapers 
drew  differing  lessons  from  the  event,  but  all  admit- 
ted that  Carnac,  as  a  great  fighter,  was  entitled  to 
success.  The  Press  were  friendly  to  the  memory 
of  Barode  Barouche,  and  some  unduly  praised  his 
work,  and  only  few  disparaged  his  career. 

When  news  of  the  tragedy  came  to  Mrs.  Grier, 
she  was  reading  in  the  papers  of  Carnac 's  victory, 
and  in  her  mind  was  an  agonizing  triumph,  pride 
in  a  stem  blow  struck  for  punishment.  The  event 
was  like  none  she  could  have  imagined. 

It  was  at  this  moment  the  note  came  from 
Carnac  telling  of  Barouche's  death,  and  it  dropped 
from  her  hand  to  the  floor.  The  horror  of  it  smote 
her  being,  and,  like  one  struck  by  lightning,  she 
sank  to  the  floor  unconscious.  The  thing  had  hit 
her  where  soul  and  body  were  closely  knit;  and  she 
had  realized  for  the  first  time  how  we  all  must 

3H 


A  Woman  writes  a  Letter 315 

pay  to  the  last  peimy  for  every  offence  we  commit 
against  the  laws  of  life  and  nature.  Barode 
Barouche  had  paid  and  she  must  pay — she  also  who 
had  sinned  with  him  must  pay.   But  had  she  not  paid  ? 

For  long  she  lay  unconscious,  but  at  last  the 
servant,  unknowing  why  she  was  not  called  to  remove 
the  breakfast  things,  found  her  huddled  on  the  floor, 
her  face  like  that  of  death.  The  servant  felt  her 
heart,  saw  she  was  alive,  and  worked  with  her  till 
consciousness  came  back. 

*  *■  That 's  right,  ma'am,  keep  up  heart.  I  '11  send  for 
M'sieu'  Camac  at  once,  and  we'll  have  you  all  right 
pretty  quick. ' ' 

But  Mrs.  Grier  forbade  Camac  to  be  sent  for, 
and  presently  in  her  bed,  declined  to  have  the  doctor 
brought.  "It's  no  use,"  she  said.  "A  doctor  can 
do  no  good.    I  need  rest,  that's  all." 

Then  she  asked  for  notepaper  and  pen  and  ink, 
and  so  she  was  left  alone.  She  must  tell  her  beloved 
son  why  it  was  there  never  had  been,  and  never 
could  be,  understanding  between  John  Grier  and 
himself.  She  had  arrived  at  that  point  where  naught 
was  to  be  gained  by  further  concealment.  So  through 
long  hours  she  struggled  with  her  problem,  and  she 


3 1 6  Carnac^s  Folly 

was  glad  Carnac  did  not  come  during  the  vexing  day. 
He  had  said  when  he  sent  her  word  of  his  victory,  that 
he  feared  he  would  not  be  able  to  see  her  the  next  day 
at  all,  as  he  had  so  much  to  do.  She  even  declined 
to  see  Junia  when  she  came,  sending  word  that  she 
was  in  bed,  indisposed. 

The  letter  she  wrote,  ran  thus : — 

**My  Beloved  Cabnac — 

"Your  news  of  the  death  of  Bar  ode  Barouche 
has  shocked  me.  You  will  understand  when  I  tell 
you  I  have  lived  a  life  of  agony  ever  since  you  became 
a  candidate.  This  is  why :  you  were  fighting  the  man 
who  gave  you  to  the  world, 

* '  Let  me  tell  you  how.  I  loved  John  Grier  when 
I  married  him,  and  longed  to  make  my  life  fit  in  with 
his.  But  that  could  not  easily  be,  for  his  life  was 
wedded  to  his  business,  and  he  did  not  believe  in 
women.  To  him  they  were  incapable  of  the  real  busi- 
ness of  life,  and  were  only  meant  to  be  housekeepers 
to  men  who  make  the  world  go  round.  So,  uninten- 
tionally, he  neglected  me,  and  I  was  young  and  comely 
then,  so  the  world  said,  and  I  was  unwise  and 
thoughtless. 

"Else,  I  should  not  have  listened  to  Barode 


A  Woman  writes  a  Letter  317 

Barouche,  who,  one  summer  in  camp  on  the  St.  Law- 
rence River  near  our  camp,  opened  up  for  me  new 
ways  of  thought,  and  springs  of  feeling.  He  had 
the  gifts  that  have  made  you  what  you  are,  a  figure 
that  all  turn  twice  to  see.  He  had  eloquence,  he  was 
thoughtful  in  all  the  little  things  which  John  Grier 
despised.  In  the  solitude  of  the  camp  he  wound  him- 
self about  my  life,  and  roused  an  emotion  for  him 
false  to  duty.  And  so  one  day — one  single  day,  for 
never  but  once  was  I  weak,  yet  that  was  enough, 
God  knows.  .  .  .  He  went  away  because  I  would  not 
see  him  again ;  because  I  would  not  repeat  the  offence 
which  gave  me  years  of  sorrow  and  remorse. 

"After  you  became  a  candidate,  he  came  and 
offered  to  marry  me,  tried  to  reopen  the  old  emotion ; 
but  I  would  have  none  of  it.  He  was  convinced  he 
would  defeat  you,  and  he  wanted  to  avoid  fighting 
you.  But  when  I  said,  'Give  up  the  seat  to  him,'  he 
froze.  Of  course,  his  seat  belonged  to  his  party  and 
not  alone  to  himself ;  but  that  was  the  test  I  put  him 
to,  and  the  answer  he  gave  was,  'You  want  me  to  des- 
troy my  career  in  politics  I  That  is  your  proposal, 
is  it?'  He  was  not  honest  either  in  life  or  conduct. 
I  don't  think  he  ever  was  sorry  for  me  or  for  you, 


3i8  Carnac's  Folly 

until  perhaps  these  last  few  weeks ;  but  I  have  sor- 
rowed ever  since  the  day  you  came  to  me — every 
day,  every  hour,  every  minute ;  and  the  more  because 
I  could  not  tell  John  Grier  the  truth. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  the  truth  long  ago, 
and  faced  the  consequences.  It  might  seem  now  that 
I  would  have  ruined  my  home  life,  and  yours,  and 
Barode  Barouche 's,  and  John  Grier 's  life  if  I  had 
told  the  truth;  but  who  knows!  There  are  many 
outcomes  to  life's  tragedies,  and  none  might  have 
been  what  I  fancied.  It  is  little  comfort  that  Barode 
Barouche  has  now  given  all  for  payment  of  his  debt. 
It  gives  no  peace  of  mind.  And  it  may  be  you  will 
think  I  ought  not  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  don 't  know, 
but  I  feel  you  will  not  misunderstand.  I  tell  you  my 
story,  so  that  you  may  again  consider  if  it  is  not 
better  to  face  the  world  with  the  truth  about  Luzanne. 
We  can  live  but  once,  and  it  is  to  our  good  if  we 
refuse  the  secret  way. 

*  'It  is  right  you  should  know  the  truth  about  your 
birth,  but  it  is  not  right  you  should  declare  it  to  all 
the  world  now.  That  was  my  duty  long  ago,  and  I 
did  not  do  it.  It  is  not  your  duty,  and  you  must  not 
do  it.    Barode  Barouche  is  gone;  John  Grier  has 


A  Woman  writes  a  Letter  319 

gone ;  and  it  would  only  hurt  Fabian  and  his  wife  and 
you  to  tell  it  now.  You  inherit  Baxode  Barouche 's 
gifts,  and  you  have  his  seat,  you  represent  his  people 
— and  they  are  your  people  too.  You  have  French 
blood  in  your  veins,  and  you  have  a  chance  to  carry 
on  with  honour  what  he  did  with  skill.  Forgive  me, 
if  you  can. 

"Your  loving, 

* '  Mother. 
**P.S.    Do  nothing  till  you  see  me." 


Chapter  XXIX  Carnac  and  his  Mother 

RETURNING  from  Barode  Barouche 's  home  to 
his  mother's  House  on  the  Hill,  Carnac  was 
in  a  cheerless  mood.  With  Barouche 's  death,  to 
Carnac  it  was  as  though  he  himself  had  put  aside 
for  ever  the  armour  of  war,  for  Barouche  was  the 
Only  man  in  the  world  who  had  ever  tempted  him  to 
fight,  or  whom  he  had  fought. 

There  was  one  thing  he  must  do ;  he  must  go  to 
Junia,  tell  her  he  loved  her,  and  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife.  She  had  given  him  the  fatal  blue  certificate 
of  his  marriage  and  the  marriage  could  now  be  ended 
with  Luzanne's  consent,  for  she  would  not  fight  the 
divorce  he  must  win  soon.  He  could  now  tell  the 
truth,  if  need  be,  to  his  constituents,  for  there  would 
be  time  enough  to  recover  his  position,  if  it  were 
endangered,  before  the  next  election  came,  and  Junia 
would  be  by  his  side  to  help  him  I  Junia — would  she, 
after  all,  marry  him  now?  He  would  soon  know. 
To-night  he  must  spend  with  his  mother,  but  to-mor- 
row he  would  see  Junia,  and  learn  his  fate,  and  know 

about  Luzanne,    Luzaune  had  been  in  Montreal, 
330 


Carnac  and  his  Mother  321 

had  been  ready  to  destroy  his  chance  at  the  polls,  and 
Junia  had  stopped  it.  How?  Well,  he  should  soon 
know.    But  now,  at  first,  for  his  mother. 

When  he  entered  the  House  on  the  Hill,  he  had 
a  sudden  shiver.  Somehow,  the  room  where  his 
mother  had  sat  for  so  many  years,  and  where  he 
had  last  seen  his  father,  John  Grier,  had  a  coldness 
of  the  tomb.  There  was  a  letter  on  the  centre  table 
standing  against  the  lamp.  He  saw  it  was  in  his 
mother's  handwriting,  and  addressed  to  himself. 

He  tore  it  open,  and  began  to  read.  Presently 
his  cheeks  turned  pale.  More  than  once  he  put  it 
down,  for  it  seemed  impossible  to  go  on,  but  with 
courage  he  took  it  up  again  and  read  on  to  the  end. 

**Grod — God  in  Heaven!"  he  broke  out  when  he 
had  finished  it.  For  a  long  time  he  walked  the  floor, 
trembling  in  body  and  shaking  m  spirit.  **Now  I 
understand  everything,"  he  said  at  last  aloud  in  a 
husky  tone.  **Now  I  see  what  I  could  not  see — ah 
yes,  I  see  at  last!" 

For  another  time  of  silence  and  turmoil  he  paced's 
the  floor,  then  he  stopped  short.    **I'm  glad  they 
both  are  dead,"  he  said  wearily.  Thinking  of  Barode 
Barouche  he  had  a  great  bitterness.    **To  treat  any 
woman  so — ^how  glad  I  am  I  fought  him !    He  learned 


322  Carnac's  Folly 

that  such  vile  acts  come  home  at  last  to  the  family- 
roof -tree.  ' ' 

Then  he  thought  of  John  Grier.  "I  loathed  him 
and  loved  him  always,"  he  said  with  terrible  remorse 
in  his  tone.  ''He  used  my  mother  badly  and  yet 
he  was  himself;  he  was  the  soul  that  he  was  bom, 
a  genius  in  his  own  way,  a  neglecter  of  all  that  makes 
life  beautiful — and  yet  himself,  always  himself.  He 
never  pottered.  He  was  real — a  pirate,  a  plunderer, 
but  he  was  real.  And  he  cared  for  me,  and  would 
have  had  me  in  the  business  if  he  could.  Perhaps 
John  Grier  knows  the  truth  now ! . . .  I  hope  he  does. 
For,  if  he  does,  he'll  see  that  I  was  not  to  blame  for 
what  I  did,  that  it  was  Fate  behind  me.  He  was  a 
big  man,  and  if  I'd  worked  with  him,  we'd  have  done 
big  things,  bigger  than  he  did,  and  that  was 
big  enough." 

"Do  nothing  till  you  see  me,"  his  mother  had 
written  in  a  postscript  to  her  letter,  and,  with  a 
moroseness  at  his  heart  and  scorn  of  Barouche  at 
his  lips,  he  went  slowly  up  to  his  mother's  room. 
At  her  door  he  paused.  But  the  woman  was  his 
mother,  and  it  must  be  faced.  After  all,  she  had 
kept  faith  ever  since  he  was  bom.    He  believed  that 


Carnac  and  his  Mother  323 

She  had  been  an  honest  wife  ever  since  that  fatal 
summer  twenty-seven  years  before. 

*^She  has  suffered,'*  he  said,  and  knocked  at 
her  door. 

An  instant  later  he  was  inside  the  room.  There 
was  only  a  dim  light,  but  his  mother  was  sitting 
up  in  her  bed,  a  gaunt  and  yet  beautiful,  sad-eyed 
figure  of  a  woman.  For  a  moment  Carnac  paused. 
As  he  stood  motionless,  the  face  of  the  woman  became 
more  drawn  and  haggard,  the  eyes  more  deeply 
mournful.  Her  lips  opened  as  though  she  would 
speak,  but  no  sound  came,  and  Carnac  could  hardly 
bear  to  look  at  her.  Yet  he  did  look,  and  all  at  once 
there  rushed  into  his  heart  the  love  he  had  ever  felt 
for  her.  After  all,  he  was  her  son,  and  she  had  not 
wronged  him  since  his  birth.  And  he  who  had 
wronged  her  and  himself  was  dead,  his  pathway 
closed  for  ever  to  the  deeds  of  life  and  time.  As 
he  looked,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  his  lips 
compressed.  At  last  he  came  to  the  bed.  Her  letter 
was  in  his  hand. 

**I  have  read  it,  mother." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  his  face  was  good  for 
her  eyes  to  see.    It  had  no  hatred  or  repulsion. 

**I  know  everything  now,"  he  added.    **I  see  it 


324  Carnac's  Folly 

all,  and  I  understand  all  you  have  suffered  these 
many  years** 

**0h,  my  son,  you  forgive  your  mother?"  She 
was  trembling  with  emotion. 

He  leaned  over  and  caught  her  wonderful  head 
to  his  shoulder.  "I  love  you,  mother,"  he  said 
gently.  *  *  I  need  you — ^need  you  more  than  I  ever  did.  * ' 

*  *  I  have  no  heart  any  more,  and  I  fear  for  you — ' ' 

''Why  should  you  fear  for  me?  You  wanted  me 
to  beat  him,  didn't  you?"  His  face  grew  hard,  his 
lips  became  scornful.  ''Wasn't  it  the  only  way  to 
make  him  settle  his  account?" 

' '  Yes,  the  only  way.  It  was  not  that  I  fear  for 
you  in  politics.  I  was  sure  you  would  win  the  elec- 
tion.   It  was  not  that,  it  was  the  girl." 

^'That's  all  finished.  I  am  free  at  last,"  he  said. 
He  held  the  blue  certificate  before  her  eyes. 

Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  her  eyes  expanded,  her 
breath  came  sharp  and  quick.  * '  How  was  it  done — 
how  was  it  done?    Was  she  here  in  Montreal?" 

"I  don't  know  how  it  was  done,  but  she  was 
here,  and  Junia  got  this  from  her.  I  shan't  know 
how,  till  I've  seen  Junia." 

"Junia  is  the  best  friend,"  said  the  stricken 
woman  gently,  **in  all  the  world;  she's " 


Carnac  and  his  Mother 325 

**  She's  so  good  a  friend  she  must  be  told  the 
truth,"  he  said  firmly. 

*  *  Oh,  not  while  I  live  1  I  could  not  bear  that ' ' 

''How  could  I  ask  Junia  to  marry  me  and  not 
tell  her  all  the  truth — ^mother,  can't  you  see?" 

The  woman's  face  flushed  scarlet.  *'Ah,  yes,  I 
see,  my  boy — I  see." 

''Haven't  we  had  enough  of  secrecy — ^in  your  let- 
ter you  lamented  it !  If  it  was  right  f  oryou  to  be  secret 
all  these  years,  is  it  not  a  hundred  times  right  now 
for  me  to  tell  you  the  truth.  ...  I  have  no  name 
— no  name,"  he  added,  tragedy  in  his  tone. 

"You  have  my  name.  You  may  say  I  have  no 
right  to  it,  but  it  is  the  only  name  I  can.  carry;  they 
both  are  dead,  and  I  must  keep  it.  It  wrongs  no 
one  living  but  you,  and  you  have  no  hatred  of  me : 
you  think  I  do  not  wrong  you — ^isn't  that  so?" 

His  cheek  was  hot  with  feeling.  "Yes,  that's 
true, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  must  still  keep  your  married 
name." 

Then  a  great  melancholy  took  hold  of  him,  and 
he  could  hardly  hide  it  from  her.  She  saw  how  he 
was  moved,  and  she  tried  to  comfort  him. 

"You  think  Junia  will  resent  it  all?  .  .  .    But 


#<% 


326  Carnac's  Folly 

that  isn't  what  a  girl  does  when  she  loves.  You  have 
done  no  wrong;  your  hands  are  clean." 

*  *  But  I  must  tell  her  all.  Tarboe  is  richer,  he  has 
an  honest  birth,  he  is  a  big  man  and  will  be  bigger 
still.     She  likes  him,  she " 

*  *  She  will  go  to  you  without  a  penny,  my  son  I  *  * 
**It  will  be  almost  without  a  penny,  if  you  don't 

live,"  he  said  with  a  faint  smile.  '*I  can't  paint 
— ^for  a  time  anyhow.  I  can't  earn  money  for  a 
time.  I've  only  my  salary  as  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment and  the  little  that's  left  of  my  legacy;  there- 
fore, I  must  draw  on  you.  And  I  don't  seem  to  mind 
drawing  upon  you,  I  never  did. ' ' 

She  smUed  with  an  effort  **If  I  can  help  you, 
I  shall  justify  living  on. ' ' 


Chapter  XXX  Tarboe  has  a  Dream 

THE  day  Camac  was  elected  it  was  clear  to 
Tarboe  that  he  must  win  Junia  at  once,  if 
he  was  ever  to  do  so,  for  Camac 's  new  honours  would 
play  a  great  part  in  influencing  her.  In  his  mind, 
it  was  now  or  never  for  himself ;  he  must  bring  affairs 
to  a  crisis. 

Junia 's  father  was  poor,  but  the  girl  had  given 
their  home  an  air  of  comfort  and  an  art  belonging 
to  larger  spheres.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
brown  paper,  and  on  it  were  a  few  of  her  own  water- 
colour  drawings,  and  a  few  old  engravings  of  merit. 
Chintz  was  the  cover  on  windows  and  easy  chairs, 
and  in  a  comer  of  the  parlour  was  a  chintz-covered 
lounge  where  she  read  of  an  evening.  So  it  was  that, 
with  Camac  elected  and  Barode  Barouche  buried,  she 
sat  with  one  of  Disraeli's  novels  in  her  hand,  busy  with 
the  future.  She  saw  for  Camac  a  safe  career,  for 
his  two  chief  foes  were  gone — ^Luzanne  Larue  and 
Barode  Barouche.  Now  she  understood  why  Camac 
had  never  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  She  had  had 
no  word  with  Camac  since  his  election — only  a  letter 

3*7 


328 Carnac's  Folly 

to  thank  her  for  the  marriage  certificate  and  to  say 
that  after  M.  Barouche  was  buried  he  would  come 
to  her,  if  he  might.  He  did  say,  however,  in  the 
letter  that  he  owed  her  his  election. 

''You've  done  a  great,  big  thing  for  me,  dearest 
friend,  and  I  am  your  ever  grateful  Camac" — that 
was  the  way  he  had  put  it.  Twice  she  had  gone  to 
visit  his  mother,  and  had  been  told  that  Mrs.  Grier 
was  too  ill  to  see  her — overstrain,  the  servant  had 
said.  She  could  not  understand  being  denied  admit- 
tance; but  it  did  not  matter,  for  one  day  Mrs.  Grier 
should  know  how  she — Junia — ^had  saved  her 
son's  career. 

So  she  thought,  as  she  gazed  before  her  into 
space  from  the  chintz-covered  lounge  on  the  night 
of  the  day  Barode  Barouche  was  buried.  There  was 
a  smell  of  roses  in  the  room.  She  had  gathered  many 
of  them  that  afternoon.  She  caught  a  bud  from  a 
bunch  on  a  table,  and  fastened  it  in  the  bosom  of 
her  dress.  Somehow,  as  she  did  it,  she  had  a  feeling 
she  would  like  to  clasp  a  man's  head  to  her  breast 
where  the  rose  was — one  of  those  wild  thoughts  that 
come  to  the  sanest  woman  at  times.  She  was  cap- 
tured by  the  excitement  in  which  she  had  moved  dur- 


Tar  bo  e  has  a  Dream 329 

ing  the  past  month — ^f  ar  more  now  than  she  had  been 
in  all  the  fight  itself. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  outer  door,  and  before 
that  of  her  own  room  opened,  she  recognized  the  step 
of  the  visitor.  So  it  was  Tarboe  had  come.  He 
remembered  that  day  in  the  street  when  he  met 
Junia,  and  was  shown  there  were  times  when  aw'oman 
could  not  be  approached  with  emotion.  He  had 
waited  till  the  day  he  knew  she  was  alone,  for  he 
had  made  a  friend  of  her  servant  by  judicious  gifts 
of  money. 

**I  hope  you're  glad  to  see  me,"  he  said  witk 
an  uncertain  smile,  as  he  saw  her  surprise. 

**I  hope  I  am,"  she  replied,  and  motioned  him 
to  a  seat.  He  chose  a  high-backed  chair  with  a  wide 
seat  near  the  lounge.  He  made  a  motion  of  humor- 
ous dissent  to  her  remark,  and  sat  down. 

"Well,  we  pulled  it  off  somehow,  didn't  we?" 
she  said.    "Camac  Grier  is  M.P." 

"And  his  foe  is  in  his  grave,"  remarked  Tarboe 
dryly. 

"Providence  pays  debts  that  ought  to  be  paid. 
This  election  has  settled  a  lot  of  things, ' '  she  returned 
with  a  smile. 


332 Carnac's  Folly 


"I  suppose  it  has,  and  I've  come  here  to  try  and 
find  one  of  the  settlements." 

*  *  Well,  find  them, ' '  she  retorted. 

"I  said  one  of  the  settlements  only.  I  have  to 
be  accurate  in  my  life." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  of  it.  You  helped  Mr.  Grier 
win  his  election.  It  was  splendid  of  you.  Think 
of  it,  Mr.  Tarboe,  Camac  Grier  is  beginning  to  get 
even  with  his  foes. ' ' 

**I'm  not  a  foe — ^if  that's  what  you  mean.  I've 
proved  it. ' ' 

She  smiled  provoMngly.  You've  proved  only 
you're  not  an  absolute  devil,  that's  all.  You've  not 
proved  yourself  a  real  man — ^not  yet.  Do  you  think 
it  paid  your  debt  to;  Camac  Grier  that  you  helped 
get  him  into  Parliament?" 

His  face  became  a  little  heated.  **I'll  prove  to 
you  and  to  the  world  that  I'm  not  an  absolute  devil 
in  the  Grier  interests.  I  didn't  steal  the  property. 
I  tried  to  induce  John  Grier  to  leave  it  to  Camac  or 
his  mother,  for  if  he'd  left  it  to  Mrs.  Grier  it  would 
have  come  to  Camac.  He  did  not  do  it  that  way, 
though.    He  left  it  to  me.    Was  I  to  blame  for  that  ? ' ' 

**  Perhaps  not,  but  you  could  have  taken  Camac 
in,  or  given  up  the  property  to  him — the  rightful 


Tarboe  has  a  Dream  331 

owner.    You  could  have  done  th.at.    But  you  were 
thinking  of  yourself  altogether." 

*'Not  altogether.    In  the  first  place,  I  am  bound 
to  keep  my  word  tq  John  Grier.    Besides,  if  Camac 
had  inherited,  the  property  would  have  got  into  dififi- 
'culties — there  were  things  only  John  Grier  and  I 
understood,  and  Camac  would  have  been  floored." 
"Wouldn't  you  still  have  been  there?" 
*  *  "Who  knows !    Who  can  tell !    Maybe  not  I '  * 
** Camac  Grier  is  a  very  able  man." 
**But  of  the  ablest.    He'll  be  a  success  in  Parliar 
ment.    He'll  play  a  big  part;  he  won't  puddle  about 
I  meant  there  was  a  risk  in  letting  Carnae  run  the 

business  at  the  moment,  and " 

**  And  there  never  was  with  you  I" 
*'None.  My  mind  had  grasped  all  John  Grier 
intended,  and  I  have  the  business  at  my  fingers '  ends. 
There  was  no  risk  with  me.  I've  proved  it.  I've 
added  five  per  cent,  to  the  value  of  the  business  since 
John  Grier  died.  I  caa  double  the  value  of  it  in 
twenty  years — and  easy  at  that." 

**If  you  make  up  your  mind  to  do  it,  you  will," 
she  said  with  admiration,  for  the  mscn  was  persuasive, 
and  he  was  playing  a  game  in  which  he  was  a  master. 


332  Carnac's  Folly 

Her  remarks  were  alive  with  banter,  for  Tarboe's 
humoiir  was  a  happiness  to  her. 

"How  did  I  buy  your  approval?"  he  ques- 
tioned alertly. 

By  ability  to  put  a  bad  case  in  a  ^ood  light. 
You  had  your  case,  and  you  have  made  a  real  success. 
If  you  keep  on  you  may  become  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment some  day!" 

He  laughed.  **Your  gifts  have  their  own  way  of 
stinging.  I  don't  believe  I  could  be  elected  to  Parlia- 
ment.   I  haven ' t  the  trick  of  popularity  of  that  kind. ' ' 

Many  thoughts  flashed  through  Tarboe's  mind. 
If  he  married  her  now,  and  the  truth  was  told  about 
the  wills  and  the  law  gave  Camao  his  rights,  she 
might  hate  him  for  not  having  told  her  when  he  pro- 
posed. So  it  was  that  in  his  desire  for  her  life  as  his 
own,  he  now  determined  there  should  be  no  second 
will.  In  any  case,  Camac  had  enough  to  live  on 
through  his  mother.  Also,  he  had  capacity  to  sup- 
port himself. 

There  was  a  touch  of  ruthlessness  in  Tarboe.  No 
one  would  ever  guess  what  the  second  will  contained 
— ^no  one.  The  bank  would  have  a  letter  saying 
where  the  wiU  was  to  be  found,  but  if  it  was  not  there ! 

He  would  ask  Junia  to  be  his  wife  now,  while 


Tarboe  has  a  Dream  333 

she  was  so  friendly.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  her 
face  was  alive  with  feeling,  and  he  was  aware  that 
the  best  chances  of  his  life  had  com©  to  win  her.  If 
she  was  not  now  in  the  hands  of  Camac,  his  chances 
were  good.  Yet  there  was  the  tale  of  the  secret 
marriage — the  letter  he  saw  Camac  receive  in  John 
Grier 's  office !  The  words  of  the  ancient  Greek  came 
to  him  as  he  looked  at  her :  '  *  He  who  will  not  strike 
when  the  hour  comes  shall  wither  like  a  flower,  and 
his  end  be  that  of  the  chaff  of  the  field." 

His  face  flushed  with  feeling,  his  eyes  grew  bright 
with  longing,  his  tongue  was  loosed  to  the  enterprise. 

*'Do  you  dream,  and  remember  your  dreams?" 
he  asked  with  a  thrill  in  his  voice.     *'Doyou?" 

*'I  don't  dream  often,  but  I  sometimes  remem- 
ber my  dreams. ' ' 

*  *  I  dream  much,  and  onedreami  have  constantly.  *  * 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  with  anticipation. 

'*It  is  the  capture  of  a  wild  bird  in  a  garden 
— ^in  a  cultivated  garden  where  there  are  no  nests, 
no  coverts  for  the  secret  invaders.  I  dream  that 
I  pursue  the  bird  from  flower-bed,  to  flower-bed,  from 
bush  to  bush,  along  paths  and  the  green-covered 
walls ;  and  I  am  not  alone  in  my  chase,  for  there  are 
others  pursuing.    It  is  a  bitter  struggle  to  win  the 


334  Carnac's  Folly 

wild  thing.  And  why?  Because  there  is  pursuing 
one  of  the  pursuers  another  bird  of  red  plumage.  Do 
you  understand?" 

He  paused,  and  saw  her  face  was  full  of  colour 
and  her  eyes  had  a  glow.  Every  nerve  in  her  was 
pulsing  hard. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  presently,  "whom  do  you 
mean  by  the  bird  of  red  plumage?  Is  it  a  mere 
figure  of  speech?    Or  has  it  a  real  meaning?" 

"It  has  a  real  meaning." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  bent  over  her  and  spoke 
hotly.  "Junia,  the  end  of  my  waiting  has  come. 
I  want  you  a&  I  never  wanted  anything  in  my  life. 
I  must  know  the  truth.  I  love  you,  Junia.  I  have 
loved  you  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  and 
nothing  is  worth  while  with  you  not  in  it.  Let  us 
work  together.    It  is  a  big,  big  game  I'm  playing." 

"Yes,  it's  a  big  game  you're  playing,"  she  said 
with  emotion.  "  It  is  a  big,  big  game,  and,  all  things 
considered,  you  should  win  it,  but  I  doubt  you  will. 
I  feel  there  are  matters  bigger  than  the  game,  or 
than  you,  or  me,  or  anyone  else.  And  I  do  not  believe 
in  your  bird  of  red  plumage ;  I  don't  believe  it  exists. 
It  may  have  done  so,  but  it  doesn't  now." 


Tarboe  has  a  Dream  335 

She  also  got  to  her  feet,  and  Tarboe  was  so  near 
her  she  could  feel  his  hot  breath  on  her  cheek. 

''No,  it  doesn't  exist  now,"  she  repeated,  "and 
the  pursuer  is  not  pursued.  You  have  more  imagina- 
tion than  belongs  to  a  mere  man  of  business — ^you're 
an  inexperienced  poet." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  drew  it  to  his  breast. 
"The  only  poetry  I  know  is  the  sound  of  your  voice 
in  the  wind,  the  laughter  of  your  lips  in  the  sun, 
the  delight  of  your  body  in  the  heavenly  flowers.  Yes, 
I  Ve  drunk  you  in  the  wild  woods ;  I  Ve  trailed  you  on 
the  river;  I've  heard  you  in  the  grinding  storm — 
always  the  same,  the  soul  of  all  beautiful  things. 
Junia,  you  shall  not  put  me  away  from  you.  You 
shall  be  mine,  and  you  and  I  together  shall  win  our 
way  to  great  ends.  "We  will  have  opportunity,  health, 
wealth  and  prosperity.    Isn't  it  worth  while?" 

"Yes,  all,"  she  answered  after  a  moment,  "but 
it  cannot  be  with  you,  my  friend." 

She  withdrew  her  fingers  and  stepped  back ;  she 
made  a  gesture  of  friendly  repulsion.  "You  have 
said  all  that  can  be  said,  you  have  ^fts  greater  than 
you  yourself  believe;  and  I  have  been  tempted;  but 
it  is  no  use,  there  are  deeper  things  than  luxuries 
and  the  magazines  of  merchandise^— much  deeper. 


336 


Carnac's  Folly 


No,  no,  I  cannot  marry  yoti;  if  you  were  as  rich  as 

Midas,  as  powerful  as  CsBsar,  I  would  not  marry  you 

— ^never,  never,  never." 

*'You  love  another,"  he  said  boldly.    "You  love 

Carnac  Grier." 

"I  do  not  love  you — ^isn't  that  enough?" 

** Almost — almost  enough,"  he  said  embarrassed. 


Chapter  XXXI This  Way  Home 

ALL  Junia  had  ever  felt  of  the  soul  of  things 
-  was  upon  her  as  she  arranged  flowers  and 
listened  to  the  church  bells  ringing. 

''They  seem  to  be  always  ringing,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  lightly  touched  the  roses.  ' '  It  must 
be  a  Saint's  Day — where's  Denzil?  Ah,  there  he  is 
in  the  garden  I    I  '11  ask  him. ' ' 

Truth  is,  she  was  deceiving  herself.  She  wanted 
to  talk  with  Denzil  about  all  that  had  happened  of 
late,  and  he  seemed,  somehow,  to  avoid  her.  Perhaps 
he  feared  she  had  given  her  promise  to  Tarboe  who 
had,  as  Denzil  knew,  spent  an  hour  with  her  the  night 
before.  As  this  came  to  Denzil 's  brain,  he  felt  a 
shiver  go  through  him.  Just  then  he  heard  Junia 's 
footsteps,  and  saw  her  coming  towards  him. 

''Why  are  the  bells  ringing  so  much,  Denzil? 
Is  it  a  Saint's  Day,"  she  asked. 

He  took  off  his  hat.  "Yes,  ma'm'selle,  it  is  a 
Saint's  Day,"  and  he  named  it.  "There  were  lots 
of  neighbours  at  early  Mass,  and  some  have  gone 

22  337 


338  Carnac's  Folly 

to  the  Church  of  St.  Anne  de  Beaupre  at  Beaupre, 
them  that's  got  sickness. 

''Yes,  Beaupre  is  as  good  as  Lourdes,  I'm  sure. 
Why  didn't  you  go,  Denzil?" 

"Why  should  I  go,  ma'm'selle — ^I  ain't  sick — 
ah,  bah  I" 

*  *  I  thought  you  were.  You've  been  in  low  spirits 
ever  since  our  election,  Denzil." 

"Nothing  strange  in  that,  ma'm'selle.  I've  been 
thinking  of  him  that's  gone." 

"You  mean  Monsieur  Barouche,  ehl" 

"Not  of  M'sieu'  Barouche,  but  of  the  father  to 
the  man  that  beat  M'sieu'  Barouche." 

"Why  should  you  be  thinking  so  much  of  John^ 
Grier  these  days?'* 

"Isn't  it  the  right  time?  His  son  that  he  threw 
off  mthout  a  penny  has  proved  himself  as  big  a  man 
as  his  father — ah  surelee!  M'sieu'  left  behind  him 
a  will  that  gave  all  he  had  to  a  stranger.  His  own 
son  was  left  without  a  sou.  There  he  is  now,"  he 
added,  nodding  towards  the  street. 

Junia  saw  Camac  making  his  way  towards  her 
house.  * '  Well,  I  '11  talk  with  him, ' '  she  said,  and  her 
face  flushed.  She  knew  she  must  give  account  of 
her  doings  with  Luzanne  Larue. 


This  Way  Home  339 

A  few  moments  later  in  the  house,  her  hand  lay 
in  that  of  Camac,  and  his  eyes  met  hers. 

**It's  all  come  our  way,  Junia,"  he  remarked 
gaily,  though  there  was  sadness  in  his  tone. 

"  It 's  as  you  wanted  it.    You  won. ' ' 

** Thanks  to  you,  Junia,"  and  he  took  from  his 
pocket  the  blue  certificate. 

*'That — oh,  that  was  not  easy  to  get,"  she  said 
with  agitation.    *  *  She  had  a  bad  purpose,  that  girl. ' ' 

*  *  She  meant  to  announce!  it?  " 

"Yes,  through  Barode  Barouche.  He  agreed 
to  that." 

Camac  flushed.  "He  agreed  to  thai>— you  know 
it?" 

"Yes.  The  day  you  were  made  candidate  she 
arrived  here;  and  the  next  morning  she  went  to 
Barode  Barouche  and  told  her  story.  He  bade  her 
remain  secret  till  the  time  was  ripe,  and  he  was  to 
be  the  judge  of  that.  He  was  waiting  for  the  night 
before  the  election.  Then  he  was  going  to  strike 
youandwinl" 

"She  told  you  that^— Luzanne  told  you  that?" 

"And  much  else.  Besides,  she  told  me  you  had 
saved  her  life  from  the  street-cars;  that  you  had 
played  fair  at  the  start." 


340 


Carnac's  Folly 


** First  and  last  I  played  fair,"  he  said  indig- 
nantly. 

Her  eyes  were  shining.  * '  Not  from  first  to  last, 
Camac.  You  ought  not  to  have  painted  her,  or 
made  much  of  her,  and  then  thrown  her  over.  She 
knew — of  course,  she  knew,  after  a  time,  that  you 
did  not  mean  to  propose  to  her,  and  all  the  evil  in 
her  came  out.  Then  she  willed  to  have  you  in  spite 
of  yourself,  believing,  if  you  were  married,  her  affec- 
tion would  win  you  in  the  end.  There  it  was. — and 
you  were  to  blame." 

'  *  But  why  should  you  defend  her,  Junia  ? " 

Her  tongue  became  bitter  now.  "Just  as  you 
would,  if  it  was  some  one  else  and  not  yourself." 

His  head  was  sunk  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  were 
burning.  *<It  was  a  horrible  thing  for  Barouche 
to  plan." 

"Why  so  horrible?  If  you  were  hiding  a  mar- 
riage for  whatever  reason,  it  should  be  known  to  all 
whose  votes  you  wanted." 

"Barouche  was  the  last  man  on  earth  to  challenge 
me,  for  he  had  a  most  terrible  secret. ' ' 

"What  was  it?"  Her  voice  had  alarm,  for  she 
had  never  seen  Camac  so  disturbed, 


This  Way  Home  341 

'^He  was  fighting  his  own  son — and  he  knew  itl^' 

The  words  came  in  broken  accents. 

"He  was  fighting  his  own  son,  and  he  knew  it! 
You  mean  to  say  that ! ' '   Horror  was  in  her  voice. 

"I  mean  that  the  summer  before  I  was  bom 

"    He  told  her  the  story  as  his  mother  had 

told  it  to  him.     Then  at  last  he  said : 

**And  now  you  know  Barode  Barouche  got  what 
he  deserved.  He  ruined  my  mother's  life,  he  died 
the  easiest  death  such  a  man  could  die.  He  has  also 
spoiled  my  life." 

"Nothing  can  spoil  your  life  except  yourself," 
she  declared  firmly,  and  she  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
arm.    "Who  told  you  all  this — and  when?" 

*  *  My  mother  in  a  letter  last  night.  I  had  a  talk 
with  her  afterwards." 

"Who  else  knows!" 

"Only  you." 

"And  why  did  you  tell  me?" 

"Because  I  want  you  to  know  why  our  ways  must 
for  ever  lie  apart. ' ' 

"I  don't  grasp  what  you  mean,"  she  declared 
in  a  low  voice. 

"You  don't  grasp  why,  loving  you,  I  didn't  ask 
you  to  marry  me  long  ago;  but  you  found  out  for 


342  Carnac's  Folly 

yourself  from  the  one  who  was  responsible,  and  freed 
me  and  saved  me ;  and  now  you  know  I  am  an  illegiti- 
mate son.** 

"And  you  want  to  cut  me  out  of  your  life  for 

a  bad  man*s  crime,  not  your  own Listen,  Camac. 

Last  night  I  told  Mr.  Tarboe  I  could  not  marry  him. 
He  is  rich,  he  has  control  of  a  great  business,  he  is 
a  man  of  mark.  Why  do  you  suppose  I  did  it,  and 
for  over  two  years  have  done  the  same ;  for  he  has 
wanted  me  all  that  time — Does  not  a  girl  know  when 
a  real  man  wants  her?  And  Luke  Tarboe  is  a  real 
man.  He  knows  what  he  wants,  and  he  goes  for  it, 
and  little  could  stop  him  as  he  travels.  Why  do  you 
suppose  I  did  it  I"  Her  face  flushed,  anger  lit  her 
eyes.  "Because  there  was  another  man;  but  I've 
only  just  discovered  he's  a  sham,  with  no  real  love 
for  me.    It  makes  me  sorry  I  ever  knew  him. ' ' 

* '  Me — ^no  real  love  for  you !  That 's  not  the  truth : 
it's  because  I  have  no  real  namei  to  give  you — 
that's  why  I've  spoken  as  I  have.  Never  have  I 
cared  for  anyone  except  you,  Junia,  and  I  could  have 
killed  anyone  that  wronged  you " 

"Kill  yourself  then,"  she  flashed. 

"Have  I  wronged  you,  Junia!" 

*  *  If  you  kept  me  waiting  and  prevented  me  from 
marrying  a  man  I  could  have  loved,  if  I  hated  you — 


This  Way  Home  343 

if  you  did  that,  and  then  at  last  told  me  to  go  my 
ways,  don't  you  think  it  wronging  me  I  Don't  be  a 
fool,  Caraac.  You're  not  the  only  man  on  earth  a 
good  girl  could  love.  I  tell  you,  again  and  again  I 
have  been  moved  towards  Luke  Tarboe,  and  if  he  had 
had  understanding  of  women,  I  should  now  be 
his  wife." 

"You  tell  me  what  I  have  always  known,'*  he 
interposed.  "I  knew  Tarboe  had  a  hold  on  your 
heart.  I'm  not  so  vain  as  to  think  I've  always  been 
the  one  man  for  you.  I  lived  long  in  anxious  fear, 
and " 

* '  And  now  you  shut  the  door  in  my  face  I  Looked 
at  from  any  standpoint,  it's  ugly." 

"I  want  you  to  have  your  due,"  he  answered 
with  face  paler.  ' '  You  're  a  great  woman— the  very 
greatest,  and  should  have  a  husband  bom  in  hon- 
est wedlock." 

*  *  I  'm  the  best  judge  of  what  I  want, ' '  she  declared 
almost  sharply,  yet  there  was  a  smile  at  her  lips. 
"Why,  I  suppose  if  John  Grier  had  left  you  his 
fortune,  you'd  give  it  up;  you'd  sayc  *I  have  no 
right  to  it,'  and  would  give  it  to  my  brother-in- 
law,  Fabian.'* 

"I  should." 


344  Carnac's  Folly 

"Yet  Fabian  had  all  he  deserved  from  his  father. 
He  has  all  he  should  have,  and  he  tried  to  beat  his 
father  in  business.  Camae,  don't  be  a  bigger  fool 
than  there's  any  need  to  be.  What  is  better  than 
that  John  Grier's  business  should  be  in  Tarboe's 
hands — or  in  yours  ?  Remember,  John  Grier  might 
have  left  it  all  to  your  mother,  and,  if  he  had,  you'd 
have  taken  it,  if  she  had  left  it  to  you.  You'd  have 
taken  it  even  if  you  meant  to  give  it  away  afterwards. 
There  are  hospitals  to  build.  There  are  good  and 
costly  things  to  do  for  the  State. ' ' 

Suddenly  she  saw  in  his  eyes  a  curious  soft  under- 
standing, and  she  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"Camac,"  she  said  gently,  "great,  great  Camac, 
won 't  you  love  me  ? '  * 

For  an  instant  he  felt  he  must  still  put  her  from 
him,  then  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast. 

"But  I  really  had  to  throw  myself  into  your 
arms !"  she  said  later. 


Chapter  XXXII  ''Halves,  Pardner,  Halves'' 

IT  was  Thanksgiving  Day  and  all  the  people  of 
the  Province  were  en  fete.  The  day  was  clear, 
and  the  air  was  thrilling  with  the  spirits  of  the  north 
country;  the  vibrant  sting  of  oxygen,  the  blessed 
resilience  of  the  river  and  the  hiUs. 

It  was  a  great  day  on  the  St.  Lawrence,  for 
men  were  preparing  to  go  to  the  backwoods,  to  the 
''shanties,"  and  hosts  were  busy  with  the  crops, 
storing  them;  while  all  in  trade  and  industry  were 
cheerful.  There  was  a  real  henedicite  in  the  air. 
In  every  church.  Catholic  and  Protestant,  hands  of 
devoted  workers  had  made  beautiful  alter  and  com- 
munion table,  and  lectern  and  pidpit,  and  in  the 
Methodist  chapel  and  the  Presbyterian  kirk,  women 
had  made  the  bare  interiors  ornate.  The  bells  of  all 
the  churches  were  ringing,  French  and  English ;  and 
each  priest,  clergyman  and  minister  was  moving  his 
people  in  his  own  wav  and  by  his  own  ritual  to  bless 
God  and  live. 

In  the  city  itself,  the  Mayor  had  arranged  a  fes- 
tival in  the  evening,  and  there  were  gathered  many 

34S 


34^ Carnac's  Folly 

people  to  give  thanks.  But  those  most  conspicuous 
were  the  poor,  unsophisticated  habitants,  who  were 
on  good  tenns  with  the  refreshment  provided.  Their 
enthusiasm  was  partly  due  to  the  presence  of 
Camac  Grier. 

In  his  speech  to  the  great  crowd,  among  other 
things  the  Mayor  said:  **It  is  our  happiness  that 
we  have  here  one  whose  name  is  familiar  to  all 
in  French-Canada— that  of  the  new  Member  of 
Parliament,  Monsieur  Camac  Grier.  In  Monsieur 
Grier  we  have  a  man.  who  knows  his  own  mind,  and  it 
is  filled  with  the  interests  of  the  French  as  well  as 
the  English.  He  is  young,  he  has  power,  and  he  will 
use  his  youth  and  power  to  advance  the  good  of 
the  whole  country.    May  he  live  long!** 

Camac  never  spoke  better  in  his  life  than  in 
his  brief  reply.  When  he  had  finished,  some  one 
touched  his  arm.    It  was  Luke  Tarboe. 

"A  good  speech,  Grier.  Can  you  give  me  a 
few  moments  ? ' ' 

"Here?**  asked  Camac,  smiling. 

**Not  here,  but  in  the  building.  There  is  a  room 
where  we  can  be  alone,  and  I  have  to  tell  you  some- 
thing of  great  importance.** 


"Halves,  Par  drier,  Halves" 347 

**0f  great  importance?  Well,  so  have  I  to  tell 
you,  Tarboe." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  in  the  Mayor's 
private  parlour,  hung  with  the  portraits  of  past 
Governors  and  Mayors,  and  carrying  over  the  door 
the  coat-of-arms  of  the  Province. 

Presently  Camac  said:  ''Let  me  give  you  my 
news  first,  Tarboe:  **I  am  to  marry  Junia  Shale 
— and  soon." 

Tarboe  nodded.  *  *  I  expected  that.  She  is  worth 
the  best  the  world  can  offer."  There  was  a  ring 
of  honesty  in  his  tone.  *' All  the  more  reason  why 
I  should  tell  you  what  my  news  is,  Camac.  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  what  oughtn't  yet  to  be  told,  for  another 
two  years,  but  I  feel  it  due  you,  for  you  were  badly 
used,  and  so  I  break  my  word  to  your  father." 

Camac 's  hand  shot  out  in  protest,  but  Tarboe 
took  no  notice.  "I  mean  to  tell  you  now  in  the 
hour  of  your  political  triumph  that " 

*  *  That  I  can  draw  on  you  for  ten  thousand  dollars, 
perhaps?"  shot  out  Camac. 

"Not  for  ten  thousand,  but  in  two  year's  time 
— or  to-morrow — ^f or  a  hundred  and  fifty  times  that 
if  you  want  it. " 

Camac  shmgged  his  shoulders.    **I  don't  know 


348 Carnac's  Folly 

what  you're  driving  at,  Tarboe.  Two  years  from 
now — or  to-morrow — I  can  draw  on  you  for  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  times  ten  thousand  dollars  I  What 
does  that  mean?  Is  it  you're  tired  of  the  fortune 
left  you  by  the  biggest  man  industrially  French- 
Canada  has  ever  known?" 

**I'll  tell  you  the  truth — ^I  never  had  a  perma- 
nent fortune,  and  I  was  never  meant  to  have  the 
permanent  fortune,  though  I  inherited  by  will.  That 
was  a  matter  between  John  Grier  and  myself.  There 
was  another  will  made  later,  which  left  the  business 
to  some  one  else. ' ' 

**I  don't  see." 

**0f  course  you  don't  see,  and  yet  you  must." 

Tarboe  then  told  the  story  of  the  making  of  the 
two  wills,  doing  justice  to  John  Grier. 

"He  never  did  things  like  anyone  else,  and  he 
didn't  in  dying.  He  loved  you,  Camac.  In  spite 
of  all  he  said  and  did,  he  believed  in  you.  He  knew 
you  had  the  real  thing  in  you,  if  you  cared  to  use  it." 

*  *  Good  God !  Good  God ! ' '  was  all  Camac  could 
at  first  say.    ' '  And  you  agreed  to  that  ? ' ' 

"What  rights  had  I?  None  at  all.  I'll  come 
out  of  it  with  over  half  a  million  dollars — ^isn't  that 
enough  for  a  backwoodsman?    I  get  the  profits  of 


"Halves,  Pardner,  Halves"  349 

the  working  for  three  years,  and  two  hundred  thous- 
and dollars  besides.  I  ought  to  be  satisfiedwith  that. ' ' 

* '  Who  knows  of  the  will  besides  yourself  ? ' '  asked 
Camac  sharply. 

''No  one.  There  is  a  letter  to  the  bank  simply 
saying  that  another  will  exists  and  where  it  is,  but 
that's  all." 

''And  you  could  have  destroyed  that  will  in 
my  favour?" 

"That's  so."  The  voice  of  Tarboe  was  rough 
with  feeling,  his  face  grew  dark.  ' '  More  than  once 
I  willed  to  destroy  it.  It  seemed  at  first  I  could 
make  better  use  of  the  property  than  you.  The  temp- 
tation was  big,  but  I  held  my  own,  and  now  I've 
no  fear  of  meeting  anyone  in  Heaven  or  Hell.  I've 
told  you  all.  .  .  .  Not  quite  all.  There's  one  thing 
more.  The  thought  of  Junia  Shale  made  me  want  to 
bum  the  second  will,  and  I  almost  did  it;  but  I'm 
glad  I  didn't." 

"If  you  had,  and  had  married  her,  you  wouldn't 
have  been  happy.  You  can't  be  fooling  a  wife  and 
be  safe. ' ' 

"I  guess  I  know  that — ^just  in  time.  ...  I  have 
a  bad  heart,  Carnac.  Your  property  came  to  me 
against  my  will  through  your  father;  but  I  wanted 


350 Carnac's  Folly  

the  girl  you're  going  to  marry,  and  against  my  will 
you  won  her.  I  fought  for  her.  I  thought  there 
was  a  chance  for  me,  because  of  the  rumour  you  were 
secretly  married ** 

**I'll  tell  you  about  it,  Tarboe,  now.  It  was  an 
ugly  business."  And  he  told  in  a  dozen  sentences 
the  story  of  Luzanne  and  the  false  marriage. 

When  he  had  finished,  Tarboe  held  out  his  hand. 
"It  was  a  close  shave,  Camac." 

After  a  few  further  remarks,  Tarboe  said:  "I 
thought  there  was  a  chance  for  me  with  Junia  Shale, 
but  there  never  was  a  real  one,  for  she  was  yours 
from  a  child.  You  won  her  fairly,  Camac.  If  you'll 
come  to  the  office  to-morrow  morning,  I'll  show  you 
the  will." 

"You'll  show  me  the  will?"  asked  Camac  with 
an  edge  to  his  tone. 

"What  do  you  meant"  Tarboe  did  not  like  the 
look  in  the  other's  eyes. 

"I  mean,  what  you  have  you  shall  keep,  and 
what  John  Grier  leaves  me  by  that  will,  I  will 
not  keep." 

"You  will  inherit,  and  you  shall  keep.'* 

*  *  And  turn  you  out  I ' '  remarked  Carnac  ironically. 


''Halves,  Pardner,  Halves"  351 

**I  needn't  be  turned  out.  I  hoped  you'd  keep 
me  as  manager.  Few  could  do  it  as  well,  and,  as 
Member  of  Parliament,  you  haven't  time  yourself. 
I'll  stay  as  manager  at  twenty  thousand  dollars  a 
year,  if  you  like." 

Carnac  could  not  tell  him  the  real  reason  for 
declining  to  inherit,  but  that  did  not  matter.  Yet 
there  flashed  into  his  heart  a  love,  which  he  had 
never  felt  so  far  in  his  life,  for  Johu  Grier.  The 
old  man  had  believed  he  would  come  out  right  in 
the  end,  and  so  had  left  him  the  fortune  in  so  odd  a 
way.  How  Carnac  longed  to  tell  Tarboe  the  whole 
truth  about  Barode  Barouche,  and  yet  dare  not! 
After  a  short  time  of  hesitation  and  doubt,  Carnac 
said  firmly : 

"I'll  stand  by  the  will,  if  you'll  be  my  partner 
and  manager,  Tarboe.  If  you'll  take  half  the  bus- 
iness and  manage  the  whole  of  it,  I'll  sell  the  half 
for  a  dollar  to  you,  and  we  can  run  together  to 
the  end." 

Tarboe 's  face  lighted;  there  was  triumph  in  his 
©yes.  It  was  all  better  than  he  had  dared  to  hope, 
for  he  liked  the  business,  and  he  loathed  the  way 
the  world  had  looked  at  John  Grier's  will. 


352 Carnac's  Folly     

** Halves,  pardner,  halves!"  he  said,  assenting 
gladly,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

They  clasped  hands  warmly. 

The  door  opened  and  Junia  appeared.  She 
studied  their  faces  anxiously.  When  she  saw  the 
smiling  light  in  them : 

"Oh,  you  two  good  men!"  she  said  joyously, 
and  held  out  a  hand  to  each. 


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